


The Tao of Tricking

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Character Study, Gap Filler, In Character, M/M, Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:06:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>News flash!  Brian Kinney likes to fuck.  He fucks a lot of guys and rarely the same guy twice, but every trick has his own story - or his own lesson to teach.  Fucking isn't <i>all</i> just escapism, and not every guy Brian fucks is just an airhead with two orifices.  This series chronicles Brian's emotional evolution seen through the prism of sex, but it's not just about sex, it's also about . . . (drum roll - you know what's coming) . . . life and love and happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of short stories featuring every one of Brian's tricks from the beginning of the show until the end. You can find the season & episode next to each heading. Needless to say, it took a lot of research & note-taking. Every important detail is canon-based. I've written most of it, so the updates will be regular and quick. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Number One: The Undertaker – S1/E4**

“Well, first you have to figure out if they’re really dead, ‘coz, believe me, sometimes they aren’t.”

Brian lit the joint and took a drag before he handed it to the naked man beside him. The fuck had been good enough to warrant smoking the pot he’d been saving for his and Mikey’s road trip to the first ever Baltimore Comic Con. Mikey was going to be bouncing off the walls and Brian wanted something to mellow him out and maybe even rein him in before he spent his annual salary, pathetic though it was.

“What do you do? Zap ‘em with a cattle prod?”

“Kinda. I look for reflexes, like, you know, when a doctor thumps your knee to make you kick.” The Undertaker took a long deep drag and handed the joint back to Brian. “That’s good shit,” he said in that funny voice that meant he was trying to hold onto his inhalation for as long as he could.

“Yeah, I know. Fucked the dealer; he was pretty good too. Testing for rigor mortis?”

“Exactly,” the Undertaker replied with a rush of breath.

“Then what?”

“Then I flush out the blood and other interstitial fluids with an injection of chemicals.”

“Yeah? Then what?” Brian accepted the joint and placed it between his lips.

“Then I do the cavity embalming during which I make an incision just above the navel and puncture the hollow organs and aspirate their contents. Then I fill the cavities with formaldehyde.”

“Cool,” Brian said, forgetting for a second that they were talking about a human body and not a dissected frog in some high school biology class.

“Yeah, for the first few times, but then after that, it gets rote and boring like any job, I guess.” 

Brian was feeling sated and mellow. He took another drag on the joint and handed it back to the Undertaker. “Is it true your hair and nails keep growing after you’re dead?”

“Not exactly. The skin starts to dry out and pulls away from the follicles, which makes hair look longer, but nothing’s actually growing anymore – hair or nails. Dead guys always have a five o’clock shadow though. Unless they’re intentionally scruffy, like Kurt Cobain or something, I usually have to shave their faces twice.”

“Cool,” Brian said again. He loved it when tricks told him shit he didn’t know. He pinched off the roach and put it in the ashtray on the nightstand. 

“The worst part is clipping the toenails,” the Undertaker said. “You should see some of the shit I’ve seen. Feet are fucking gross.”

Brian held up his leg to examine his own toenails. Thank God, he’d just had a pedicure. “Would mine gross you out?” he asked.

The Undertaker sat up and tucked the pillow behind his back. “Let me see,” he said. Brian maneuvered himself on the bed so that the man could hold his foot. He examined it for a long time, tracing Brian’s arch admiringly with his thumb. Brian’s dick stiffened.

“No,” he said. “Your feet are gorgeous, just like the rest of your whole fucking body.”

Usually Brian didn’t like to be flattered, but there was a frank expertise in the man’s voice that reminded Brian that he’d seen hundreds of bodies in all stages of existence. Babies. Teenagers. Middle-aged bankers. Old farts. Brian wasn’t going to begrudge him the role of connoisseur – a connoisseur of life and youth and the mortality of beauty. The Undertaker held Brian’s ankle gently and smoothed his hand up Brian’s shin and then over his thigh, following the movement with a reverent gaze. Brian closed his eyes with a groan when he wrapped his fingers around Brian’s cock but then opened them again when nothing more happened.

The Undertaker looked in Brian’s eyes for a long moment; he seemed oddly solemn or perhaps just wistful; Brian couldn’t tell for sure.

“The hardest part isn’t dealing with the dead,” he said. “It’s dealing with the living that sucks. There’s always something that was left unfinished, unspoken, unacknowledged.” He began stroking Brian’s cock, admiring the way the purplish head disappeared and then reappeared in his fist. Brian loved coming from a good hand job. He settled back against the pillows with a sigh, ready to succumb to the tide of pleasure, but then the Undertaker paused again. Brian opened his eyes.

“Just remember,” the man said with the confidence of hard-earned wisdom, “they’ll sew your mouth shut, so make Goddamn sure you’ve said everything you need to say before you die.” 

Brian had never lost an erection quicker in his entire life.

 

**Number Two: Diaper Dan – S1-E15**

“I brought one with me.”

Brian arched an eyebrow and regarded “Dan.” He never asked a trick’s name, and he preferred they didn’t offer, but the guy had said it before Brian could tell him not to. Dan was holding up something that looked like . . .

“You brought a diaper,” Brian said. “And there I was thinking that ‘I come fully prepared’ meant you had condoms.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “As if someone with your reputation doesn’t already have a billion condoms. You probably own stocks in Trojan.”

“Actually you’re right,” Brian replied. “And given your business acumen, perhaps we can discuss diversification later. But back to this diaper of yours: you suspected that perhaps – just perhaps – I might not have some Pampers kicking around?”

“Do you?” Dan looked impressed.

“No, I don’t,” Brian replied.

“I bet you have everything else, though,” Dan said, sounding oddly aggrieved.

Brian made an expression as though he was mentally reviewing a very long list. “Everything worth having,” he said after a moment. 

Dan’s expression changed from aggrieved to offended. “Should I just leave?” he asked angrily, putting his coat back on.

Brian grabbed his arm. “I didn’t say anything about leaving,” he said. “I just haven’t been with a guy with a diaper fetish before. This is new territory.”

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t shit in it.”

“My brain hadn’t quite gotten that far yet,” Brian replied. “But thanks for the heads-up.” 

“What’d you think you were going to find on KinkyKicks.com? Dudes with nipple rings and foot fetishes?”

Indeed, what _had_ he been expecting? “I don’t know,” Brian replied. “Fisting or sounding, I guess. Maybe e-stim. I just got a violet wand that I want to try out on someone before I use it on myself – a guinea pig, if you will.”

Dan rolled his eyes again. “Since when were fisting and sounding ‘kinks’? Why put an ad online if you can get fisted at the bathhouses?”

“Not a _good_ fisting,” Brian replied. “But sounding is still a kink. You can’t get that just any old place – unless you’re one of those fucking morons who doesn’t mind using a sharpened pencil.”

“I’ve seen guys sounding at the baths. It’s fucking disgusting,” Dan said. “The rods need to be sterilized. The bathhouses are petri dishes. No one wants to end up stuffing a rod covered with flesh-eating bacteria in their dick.”

Brian laughed and cringed at the same time. “No, you’re probably right,” he said. “Alright, I’m all ears. What would you like me to do?”

Dan visibly relaxed. With the tension gone, Brian could fully appreciate his beauty. Even though he was obviously in his forties, he was easily one of the top ten hottest guys he’d ever been with. So what if he wanted to wear Huggies? The guy was fucking gorgeous.

“I want you to put the diaper on me and then spank me.”

Brian raised both eyebrows this time. He was beginning to see the potential in Dan’s scenario. “Are you going to want to call me ‘Daddy,’?”

“Only if you want. I know it freaks some guys out.”

“We’ll see,” Brian said, as usual open to (almost) all opportunities to try something new. “And then what?”

“Then you can let me suck your cock. Rumor has it, it’s beautiful.”

“Rumors are rarely true, but that one is.”

Dan’s face broke into a smile, and he laughed. “Do you have something to drink?”

“Need a little liquid lube? Sure. What do you want?”

“Just a beer.”

Brian went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Only have Heineken,” he said. “Sorry ‘bout that. My best friend brought it over. I hate the shit. One of these days he’ll discover the joys of microbrews, although his beverage of choice is Pepsi, so I’m not holding my breath.” He pulled out a bottle and opened it.

“Heineken’s fine,” Dave said, and Brian watched with astonishment as he downed the whole bottle in one long chug.

“You’re not going to piss in your diapers, are you?”

“Would it be a deal breaker if I did?”

Brian checked in with his dick. The prospect didn’t make it go soft.

“No,” he said after a moment, “ _but_ there is a Rule. No getting it on me. If anyone’s going to be peeing on anyone, it’ll be me pissing of them. Non-negotiable.”

“No worries,” Dan replied with what might be a smirk. “I brought extra absorbent Pampers.”

 

After he’d come twice down the guy’s throat, Brian surprised himself by asking if Dan wanted to do it again sometime. Brian rarely did tricks more than once, but Dan was different. Dan wasn’t just a novelty; he was a power trip beyond compare. He wasn’t the first trick whose fantasies Brian had fulfilled, but he was the first that made Brian feel like he was King Of The Whole Fucking World. Never – in his entire life – had Brian encountered such gratitude. He was used to being complimented on his fucks, but none of his tricks had ever actually _wept_. And not in a faggy way. They were the tears of a man – a man who’d been given access to his most inner self.

It got Brian wondering if he, too, had a similar kind of thing – something that shaped his every dream and desire. Once he’d thought it was his homosexuality in general; now he wondered if it might be some fucking thing he didn’t even have the words to name.

“Everyone has one,” Dan said one night. This time he was drinking Iron City, which he brought to the loft along with his Pampers. Jack drank Iron City, so Brian turned it down and instead poured himself a glass of Beam.

“Everyone has what?” he asked.

“A kink, a fetish. Something they don’t simply want. Something they _need_ , like breath and food and water.”

Brian scoffed. “Not me,” he replied. “I don’t care what I do as long as it gets me off and doesn’t involve shit. I am not, and will never be, a scat queen.”

Dan laughed and opened another beer with the church key Brian tossed to him. “I know one, actually. He’s a hedge fund manager.”

“Figures.”

“But I’m not just talking about a sexual kink; I’m talking about the glue that holds your soul together when the rest of your world is flying apart.”

“And your ‘glue’ is wearing a diaper and getting your ass spanked pink?”

Dan shook his head disappointedly as though Brian was a poor student who kept failing a critical lesson. “That’s only the manifestation – the _real_ reason behind what I do is the need to abdicate both control and pride, to allow myself to be humbled. To be human.”

“Pretty deep shit,” Brian said, pouring himself another shot. “No pun intended, of course.”

Dan didn’t try to lighten the mood. “Laugh,” he said. “But like I said, we all have something. It doesn’t have to be a sexual kink. It can be something as simple as love.”

Brian froze, his lip touching the rim of his glass. Was this going to be one of those dreadful “I’ve fallen in love with you” conversations?

Dan must’ve read his mind. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m just trying to help you like you’ve helped me.”

“Well, I don’t need help,” Brian said, throwing back the whisky and pouring himself another shot.

“Bullshit you don’t”

“Look,” Brian replied with the venom he was as famous for as his fucks. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I want, and you _certainly_ don’t know what I need.”

Instead of fighting back, Dan merely sighed. “I feel sorry for you,” he said, “because neither do you.”

Brian never took his calls again.

 

**Number Three: Mikey’s Future Husband – S2-E12**

Chicago’s White Party was the best Brian had ever been to. Even the fucking airport smelled like sex. He’d been hard the entire flight, and he would’ve fucked one of his fellow first class travelers if they hadn’t been so fucking ugly and desperate – old dudes on business trips with wives and kids at home and closeted Republican politicians trolling for cock between campaign stops.

As soon as he entered his hotel room, he ordered porn and jerked off twice. He knew from much experience that if he didn’t, he’d end up fucking someone average just to get off and miss out on the hottest guy in the room.

It took a good two hours to get ready: Shower, check; exfoliating scrub, check; fucking expensive moisturizer made from volcanic mud found in some jungle somewhere, check; shaving gel, check; calming gel, check; Cold Plasma anti-aging face crème, check; hair product that cost a million dollars, check; skintight-but-still-tasteful, white Armani suit and tie, check; white calfskin Gucci loafers, check. Cowry shell bracelet, check.

 

He wasn’t the most beautiful man there, and the disquiet the realization caused took some time to dispel. He chastised himself; Chicago’s wasn’t the first White Party he’d attended. There were always hotter guys . . . but few of them could dance like him, which meant he always ended up with said hotter guys. And none he’d ever met could come more than once. Brian felt sorry for them; they hung their desirability on their looks alone, which meant they’d never know the ecstasy of filling the same condom three times in one fuck.

The inevitable orgy was a fiasco. One of the guys was drunk off his ass and vomited; another couldn’t rim his way out of a wet paper bag, and the hottest of them all insisted on topping and wouldn’t even consider the counter offer of a blowjob. When Brian informed him he didn’t get fucked, the asshole got up, got dressed and slammed the door behind him hard enough to knock the shitty, hotel-quality painting off the wall. Fortunately, it was Barfing Dude’s room and not Brian’s. He got the hell out of there, leaving Ass-Eating Fail to clean up the mess.

But then, when the whole trip started to feel like a big, fucking waste of his time, the elevator door opened and out stepped Blue-Eyes. Brian had a thing for blue eyes. He knew it was a pedestrian attraction, but he didn’t give a shit. He liked what he liked. It was as simple as that.

“So,” Brian said, intercepting the man’s attempt to walk down the hall. “Have fun at the party?”

The man smiled at him pleasantly. It was not the look Brian had been trying to elicit.

“The band was good.”

Brian nodded. Had there been a band? All he remembered was a DJ. The band must’ve played after he’d left with the three hot guys. “Yeah, they were great,” he said vaguely.

“I’m really glad they played that song from their last album – you know what I’m talking about, the one about water’s cleansing properties.”

“Uhm, yeah. Cleansing properties,” Brian said. “Is your room on this floor?”

“You don’t know what I’m talking about,” Blue-Eyes said with the same benign expression, “but, yes, my room is on this floor.” 

As soon as they walked in, Brian was overwhelmed by the scent of incense and pot smoke. It reminded him of the dorm rooms of all the artsy-fartsy granola types he fucked in college.

“So,” Blue-Eyes said, “what do you do when you’re not dancing like you haven’t a single care in the world?”

Brian raised his eyebrows. The guy had noticed him at the party. “Fuck,” he replied smoothly and reached for the man’s belt buckle. The man let him, but made no gesture of his own.

“Fuck, huh?” he said. “You don’t seem like an airhead, but one cannot always read a book by its cover.”

Brian snorted. “All you need to know about me is that I’m going to make your dreams come true, emphasis on the word ‘come,’ of course.”

“I doubt that,” the man said, but not unkindly, “although I’m not opposed to the idea of letting you try.”

Brian hooked his finger around a belt loop and pulled Blue-Eyes close. Their kiss was long and deep. “What do you want?” he murmured after he’d reached between the man’s legs to ascertain his enthusiasm. His kisses never failed to produce a rock-hard erection and Blue-Eyes was no exception.

“Tie me up and have your way with me. Put your soul into it.”

“What makes you think I have one?”

The man pulled back and looked into Brian’s eyes for a long time. Brian was so mesmerized by his gaze that he didn’t flinch away when the man cupped his chin and caressed his cheek with his thumb.

“Everyone has a soul,” the man said.

“Even Newt Gingrich?”

Blue-Eyes laughed, breaking the spell. He didn’t reach out to stop him when Brian moved to escape his tenderness. “Even Newt.”

“You’re more generous than I am, that’s for sure,” Brian said. He was feeling uncomfortable with the intimacy that surrounded them as thick and suffocating as the incense.

“Don’t be hard on yourself; my generosity took years to come by. You’ll find your own capacity someday, and it might be more than you can now imagine.”

Brian barely suppressed a scowl. “I’m afraid I’m much more Nietzsche than Hegel, professor,” he said icily.

“Nietzsche and Ayn Rand are for my college students,” Blue-Eyes said, smiling playfully. 

“And incense and pot aren’t?”

“Touché.”

Brian looked at his watch. “Listen, are we going to fuck or what? If I wanted to take Philosophy 101, I wouldn’t have majored in advertising.”

“And advertising doesn’t involve abstract thinking and the search for desire and purpose – or at least its illusion?”

“Not really.” Brian sighed with exasperation. He was rapidly losing his hard-on. “It involves selling crap to gullible – but hopefully wealthy – idiots.”

“Exactly,” Blue-Eyes said, laughing. “And by the way, you’re full of shit. You did take Philosophy 101; how the hell else would you know about Hegel?” 

“Actually, I really didn’t,” Brian replied. “The only reason I went to college was to learn the shit I couldn’t teach myself and which I needed in order to make a shitload of money. You don’t escape a fucking cul-de-sac with no more education than School House Rock.”

“Surely your parents taught you something . . .”

“The only thing my parents taught me was self-reliance. It was either that or drown myself in alcohol and religion. Are we done yet?”

Blue-Eyes pulled Brian close again and opened his buckle with nimble fingers. “Not if you’re going to try to make my dreams come true.”

Relieved, Brian reached up and pinched an already hard nipple, eliciting a groan he hoped would take the place of a lecture. Alas, he was unsuccessful.

“And don’t think that I won’t see your soul,” the professor said. “I’ve already seen it. I wouldn’t be offering myself to you if I hadn’t.”

 

**Number Four: The First Almost Dead Guy Brian Almost Had Sex With – S1-E4**

Of all the people he hung out with, Ted was the absolute last one Brian wanted to have sex with. It wasn’t that Ted was the ugliest guy in the world; it was that he wore his puppy dog need on his sleeve. Brian hated need. It was as unsexy as zits and flatulence. So when one of the Todds invited Ted to join their orgy, Brian almost grabbed his clothes and fled his own apartment.

“Uhm, I don’t know,” Ted hemmed and hawed. “I’m only here to get Brian to sign his tax forms . . .”

“That’s right,” Brian interrupted. “My tax forms. That’s why he’s here. My signature and my tax forms.”

“Ah, come on, Brian,” the other Todd said. “Don’t be a prick. The guy prepared your taxes. Don’t you think you owe him something?”

“I pay him,” Brian replied. “In money. And I’ll buy him a drink too if I have to.”

“Don’t you think letting him suck your cock is better than a Bud?”

It was clear Brian wasn’t winning the argument, so he tried a different tack. “Ted’s a friend,” he said. “I don’t fuck friends.”

“Nice,” said Kevin. “I guess we know where we stand.”

“Shut up. Do I ever hang out with any one of you at Woody’s?”

“God, Brian. You are the biggest fucking asshole . . .”

“It’s okay,” Ted squeaked. “He’s right. We’re friends . . .”

“In my book, that’s not a disqualification,” said Todd Number One. “Isn’t that right, Todd,” he said, nudging Todd Number Two in the ribs with his elbow. “If I didn’t fuck friends, you’d be the only person I fucked, Kinney.”

Brian felt the sting. He sneered and reached for his jeans.

“Oh come on,” Todd Two said. “Don’t be so queeny. Let the guy join in. This thing’s not going to last much longer than another hour. My asshole is sore, and my balls are almost dry.”

Brian threw up his hands. “Fine. Come on, Theodore, jump in, but for fuck sake, keep your dick away from my ass – or any part of me, for that matter.”

Everyone laughed, even Ted. “Did we mention Brian doesn’t work and play well with others?” Scott asked.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Ted said, unbuttoning his shirt, “but I already knew that.”

“He does have a nice cock though, doesn’t he?”

“Hello. I’m still in the room, you assholes,” Brian snapped. “Stop yapping and blow me . . . not you, Theodore. Go over there and play with the Todds. Touch my dick, and you’ll be finding someone else’s taxes to do.”

“Fine with me,” Ted said as he pulled down his pants. “Your taxes are a mess. I’m surprised that you haven’t been audited yet.”

Brian glared at him. “I’m pleasantly surprised you’re not wearing sock suspenders, but, Jesus Christ, Theodore! Plaid boxers?”

“Gib him a break,” Todd Two said around a mouthful of Todd One’s dick. “It’s not like he came ober here anticipating a gang-bang.”

“Right,” Ted said, obviously thrilled that a hot guy was sticking up for him. “Exactly. Although given the fact it was Brian’s signature I was looking for, I’m not all that surprised.”

“God, will you all shut the fuck up?” Brian exclaimed, putting on a condom so roughly that it tore and he had to put on another. “Suck dick, eat ass, just please _please_ shut up already!”

“How about we do both,” Kevin said. “Get over here, Todd. You suck Mr. Grouch’s cock, and I’ll rim him until _he_ shuts up.”

“Which Todd?” the Todds asked.

“It. Doesn’t. Fucking. Matter,” Brian yelled at them. “Just. Do. It.”

“Never thought I’d hear you quote a rival advertiser’s slogan,” said Scott.

They all laughed. Even Ted. Fuckers. Brian reached for the poppers on the coffee table. Whisky alone just wasn’t going to cut it. And, Christ, the bump must’ve been particularly intense because he completely lost his mind and fucked every orifice that presented itself with abandon . . .

. . . and then he felt it. The head of a lubed dick nudging his ass. No popper in the world was strong enough to let him bottom. He tried to roll onto his back to escape, but one of the Todds was in his way. To his horror, the dick breached him with a jab of searing pain. He tried to flop down on his belly, but the other Todd was underneath him, sucking his dick. And where were Scott and Kevin? Brian looked around frantically until he found them sitting on the couch sharing a beer and giving each other hand jobs . . .

. . . which meant . . .

. . . the dick sank deeper into him . . .

“THEODORE SCHMIDT!” Brian practically screeched. “GET. YOUR. DICK. OUT. OF. MY. ASS!”

The owner of the dick froze, but didn’t retreat.

“NOW!!”

“Jesus, you better do as he says,” one of the Todds said. “If he squeezes his asshole, he’ll pinch your cock right off. Rumor has it he’s so tight his shit looks like spaghetti.”

The advice must’ve scared Ted because suddenly be withdrew. Brian winced at a second dart of pain. The spaghetti-shit thing was stupid, but it was true that he really _was_ tight. He couldn’t take even half of his own dildos, and the ones he could had to be covered with half a tube of lube beforehand.

“Sorry, Bri,” Ted sputtered. “I thought you were, uhm, someone else.”

Bullshit. Ted had been going for the ultimate ground-leveler. If he’d succeeded, he could’ve held it over Brian’s head for all eternity. God only knows what favors he’d manage to extort! 

“If you _ever_ mention this to anyone . . .”

“Jesus, Kinney. Shut the fuck up, will you?” Kevin said. He wasn’t laughing anymore. “You are one of the biggest fag-haters I know.”

Brian gaped at him.

“Admit it. You look down your nose at guys who take it up the ass. Bottoms aren’t real men, are they? You can barely even tolerate switchers. Which is why you don’t fuck friends. You don’t want to lose every ounce of respect you may have for them.”

Now everyone was gaping.

“But you know what, Kinney? The problem isn’t with the guys you fuck; it’s with you. You’re too insecure to let anyone inside you – literally _and_ figuratively. But you’d better let it happen some day because the only person left you’ll disdain enough to fuck is yourself.”

Orgy over. Brian threw them all out so quickly they were still getting dressed in the stairwell when the elevator arrived.

 

**Number Five: A Big O at the Big Q – S1-E13**

Santa was straight – and fat. The elf was queer – and slight. It was a no brainer. Brian took him standing up in a stall in the public bathroom at the Big Q. He was light enough that Brian could hold him up. He wrapped his legs around Brian’s waist. He was still wearing his pointy elf hat with a bell on the tip. It jingled crazily, and the two of them stopped laughing only long enough to come. It was fucking hilarious. Brian left with a pair of socks and a poinsettia for Cynthia. He laughed again when the elf winked at him on his way out. Perhaps coincidentally, that Christmas turned out to be the best he’d ever had.

 

**Number Six: “I Got Bored” – S1-E1**

Michael and Emmett were waiting for him to drive them home, and the guy’s cock-sucking skills were below par, definitely not worth the shit he’d get.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Brian said. “Blow me again after you’ve had more practice.”

 

**Number Seven: The Trick He Almost Married – S1-E1**

It wasn’t Anita’s shit that’d made him do it. And he’d lied when he’d intimated that he’d done similar things in the past.

Brian stood in the middle of the loft and looked around in chagrinned astonishment. He’d trashed the place. From the answering machine came the sound of Melanie’s voice asking where the fuck he was, and from the bathroom came an “Ow!” and the sound of running water.

The night before, his son had been born, and he’d fucked his first virgin. It was insane. _He_ was insane. He could hear Mikey’s voice in his head: _I told you not to do it, but as usual, you didn’t listen to me_. Shit. Why was Mikey always right? It was annoying.

Whatever he’d been high on, it wasn’t just booze or drugs. Neither was capable of making him juggle apples naked in his living room in the midst of his credit-limit-busting furniture. He closed his eyes and remembered the scent of the skin of an infant, the taste of an unpracticed kiss, the touch of tears on a new mother’s cheeks, the sound of the pained, shallow breaths of a no-longer innocent boy.

What had he done? And why did he feel like his life will never be the same again? After all, he didn’t plan on having anything to do with the baby, and he certainly didn’t plan on seeing Jailbait Justin again. But more had been overturned than his white suede couch, and it drove him crazy that he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was.

He was just as terrified this morning as he’d been elated last night. Less than twenty-four hours ago, his only obligations had been to his job and his cock – now two more had been added to the list, if only in theory and not in practice.

His son’s legs had been surprisingly strong as he’d kicked and wriggled in his arms. How could someone so tiny already have so much independent will, so much determination? Justin’s gaze had been fierce and defiant as he fought past the pain and Brian’s control. For the first time in forever, Brian came sooner than he’d wanted to . . .

He knew he shouldn’t; he knew he should be An Adult now that the sun had risen and his buzz had evaporated. But he fucked Justin again anyway. Twice. Once in the shower and again on his bed. He couldn’t get enough of the kid’s uncensored sounds and reflexive responses. He buried his face against Justin’s neck and groaned into his damp hair, rocking them both toward his climax. The boy wasn’t experienced enough to get himself off, but Brian didn’t mind swallowing his orgasms . . .

. . . something was different. Something had shifted shape and escaped its definitions. Something that had once been caged was now loose and roaming free.

Which was why when he said the familiar words “You can see me in your dreams,” he didn’t feel relieved like he usually did. He didn’t feel unburdened. Instead an unwelcome sensation of protectiveness took hold of him. It was alarmingly similar to the instinctive protectiveness he’d felt when he’d cupped Gus’s fragile head in his hand the night before and held his squirming body against his chest. Suddenly there were a thousand things he wanted to say, that he _needed_ to say, even though he didn’t have a clue how the conversation would go, or even to whom he should be speaking.

In the end, all he said was good-bye.

Fortunately, neither of his kids took him seriously.


	2. Chapter 2

**Number Eight: The Family Man – S1-E1**

“He’s _married_ ,” Cynthia said. “Two children.”

“Ah, a family man.”

From the astonished look she gave him, Brian could tell that the unshockable Cynthia was shocked. It was a good thing that he found her chagrin so satisfying because the ensuing fuck sure the hell wasn’t.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” Family Man mumbled as he tried to put himself back together. “I can’t _fucking_ believe I did that.” It wasn’t just guilt Brian heard in his voice; it was anguish. And fear.

Brian was washing his hands. He looked up and rolled his eyes at the mirror. “Spare me the hand-wringing,” he said. “So you took one up the ass? Big deal.”

The man turned away from Brian’s mocking gaze. “It _is_ a big deal,” he said in a cracking voice.

Oh shit. He was a client, and he was going to cry. Shit shit _shit_!

“Listen,” Brian said, trying hard to sound compassionate even though he was seething inside. “Don’t beat yourself up; it can happen even to the most closeted queer . . .”

“I am NOT a fag!” Family Man shouted so vehemently that spit flew. Brian stepped back in disgust. After he was finished fucking, saliva went back to being germ-ridden, slimy and gross. Plus, he was wearing a silk tie that even water was capable of staining.

Brian put up his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, you’re not gay. I get it. Just chalk it up to the fact that I’m so hot even straight guys don’t stand a chance . . .”

“Go ahead,” Family Man said, his eyes full of angry tears. “Laugh at me. Belittle me. I don’t care. You don’t understand: I . . . I’ve done _everything_ I was supposed to do, everything my religion asks of me – I married the girl next door. We . . . we have two beautiful children and a dog and a . . . a house with a fucking picket fence. You have _no_ idea how _hard_ I’ve worked to get where I am – to _be_ who I am!”

Brian felt his lip curl. “To be who you are? You came twice in fifteen minutes. You wanted cock so bad you practically sucked my dick off at the root. Who you are is a queer. You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig; just like you can put a wedding ring on a homosexual, and he’s still a fag. I didn’t put you in this predicament, your little wifey didn’t put you in this predicament, even your fucking church didn’t put you in this predicament – you did, pal. It’s all you.”

Instead of slinking away in shame, Family Man straightened, puffed out his chest and looked Brian square in the eyes. “You think you’re so smart,” he said, “but tell me, Mr. Kinney, where will you be when you’re old and grey and can no longer get your dick up? You’ll be a bitter old queen reigning over a faded Oz. And where will I be? Surrounded by my children and grandchildren, my siblings, my cousins, by nieces and nephews, my fellow congregants, my neighbors, my friends. I will never be alone. I’ve made a vow to grow old with another person; I give back to society as much as I take. Instead of my own selfish perverted desires, I followed a higher calling, which you can go ahead and mock if you want – and I’m sure you will. I’m sure I’ll be the big joke at the gay bar tonight. But I don’t give a damn. Get back in touch with me when you’re sixty. We’ll see which pig is still wearing the lipstick.”

Brian would’ve punched him except that Family Man’s boss walked in, jovially opened his pants and started pissing with a long, contented sigh.

“Well, done, Mr. Kinney,” he said. “You put on quite a presentation, wouldn’t you agree, Colt? What do you say? Should we hire him?”

Family Man looked at Brian, his gaze calm and arrogant – an expression that Brian recognized quite well. _Now who’s got whose balls?_ it said. Despite the queasiness in his stomach, Brian held his ground and returned the gaze – man to man.

“I don’t know, pop,” Family Man said, scratching his chin and regarding Brian with flinty eyes. “Don’t you think the ad’s a little too . . . what did you say earlier? . . . Gay?”

“Pop” gave Brian an apologetic nod in the mirror as he washed his hands. “Yeah, he said regretfully. “I’m worried that it is.” He shook the excess water off his hands and reached for a paper towel. “You have to understand, Mr. Kinney, we sell beer. Maybe here in the big city, the men wouldn’t mind, but back where we come from in West Virginia, the men are . . . well, they’re real men. They’re working hard in the mines and the factories; when they want to relax, they don’t want a bottle of beer with a picture of a homosexual on it – hell, we’re taking enough of a risk as it is by using bottles instead of cans.”

Brian bit his upper lip and nodded. Anything he said would surely get him fired; he was running up balances on three different credit cards, so unemployment wasn’t an option. Once he’d reined in his anger, he smiled and slapped “Pop” on the shoulder. “You know your customers,” he said with feigned casualness. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“Pop” looked chagrinned. “Hang on, Mr. Kinney . . . can I call you Brian?”

Brian nodded.

“Brian. Listen, I don’t want you thinking me and Colt here are prejudiced or anything like that. Homos can do whatever they want in the privacy of their own bedrooms is my thinking, which, let me tell you, makes me practically a Goddamn liberal where we come from. But it’s not something people want shoved in their faces – especially when all they wanna do is have a cold one and play a few rounds of darts. You did a great presentation, and if it wasn’t for Colt here talking some sense into me, I would’ve hired you. I hope you understand it’s nothing personal, son.”

Brian shrugged. “Strictly business,” he said, glancing in the mirror at Colt and holding his gaze. “Like I said, you know your customers.”

“Pop” grinned. “I like you, Brian,” he said. “Listen, if you’re ever down in Wheeling, look us up. My son-in-law here does a mighty fine brisket on that fancy new grill of his, and my daughter’s pies win blue ribbons at the county fairs.”

Brian was looking at Colt the whole time his father-in-law was talking, but then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said, turning his gaze to “Pop.” “But I’m afraid that the last place I’m going to find myself is Wheeling, West Virginia. You see, I’m one of those fags you so kindly tolerate. I wouldn’t want to make you – or Colt here – feel uncomfortable. Now please excuse me gentlemen, I have an appointment at the AIDs clinic, and I don’t want to be late. It’s been a pleasure.”

Colt turned green and looked on the verge of fainting. Brian smiled at him as he walked by. “Have a lovely trip home, boys,” he said. “And say ‘hello’ to the wives and kids for me.”

 

**Number Nine: Himself – S1-E2**

The guy’s online name was “Good Fuck.” Despite knowing the dirty little secrets of advertising, Brian was willing to give him a go. He pulled on his tightest t-shirt, retrieved some E from his stash, and looked in the mirror.

Shit, he looked hot. He ran his hands through his hair and struck a pose.

“ _I’d_ fuck you,” he said to his reflection and meant it.

 

**Number Ten: The Guilt Trip – S1-E2**

George Goodfuck may’ve been as good as his name, but Brian would never know. After watching Justin drive away, he wasn’t in the mood anymore. They’d shared a couple of beers though, which was weird. Brian never just hung out with tricks – especially tricks he’d picked up on the internet. But then again G.G. wasn’t really a trick. They hadn’t fucked. Brian didn’t want him to spend the night or anything crazy like that, but he also didn’t feel the need to boot his ass out the door the second the condom came off.

“Cute kid,” G.G. said. “But you’re not the brightest bulb in the box, are you?” 

Brian put down his bottle and gaped at him. Maybe he’d been wrong about not kicking G.G. out.

“Excuse me?”

G.G. took a moment to sip his beer before answering. “Listen, I’m not blaming you. Who doesn’t want it? I’m not sure I could’ve passed up the opportunity if it’d been me. He’s adorable.”

 _Adorable?_ Brian looked at him. G.G. didn’t seem like an asshole. Maybe not James Dean in the looks department, but not vacuous like many of Brian’s usual tricks. He decided to take the bait. “What’re you talking about?”

The dismissal implicit in G.G.’s eye roll was nullified by his smile. “A boy,” he said. “A virgin. How old is he, anyway? Fifteen?”

Brian grimaced. “Jesus, no. Seventeen.” 

“At least that’s what he told you. Looked fifteen to me, and if you tell me that’s not one of the reasons you brought him home, I’ll leave here thinking you’re a liar as well as an asshole.”

Brian laughed. He kind of liked the guy. “‘Nother beer?” G.G. shrugged and Brian went to the fridge.

“Anything other than Sam?”

“Beam.”

G.G. seemed to consider his options for a moment. “I’ll stick with beer,” he said. “Work tomorrow.”

Brian fought the urge to ask what he did. Face and hands like G.G.’s suggested a blue collar job. Maybe he knew Jack. Brian almost laughed out loud, but caught himself at the last second.

“Carpenter,” G.G. said. “Cabinets.” He must’ve seen something in Brian’s expression that invited the confidence. Not for the first time, Brian cursed his inability to maintain a poker face.

“So,” he said, turning back to less personal topics, “I brought the kid home to pop his cherry?”

“Didn’t you?” G.G. said, accepting the bottle Brian held out to him.

Brian leaned against the counter and regarded the floor long enough for the silence to become awkward. “Maybe,” he said. He looked up. G.G.’s eyebrow was raised. “Yeah,” he added.

G.G. laughed good-naturedly. “So did you?”

Brian chewed on his lip to suppress what he feared might be a triumphant smile. “Yeah,” he said. “But that’s all I’m saying about it”

G.G. made a gesture of gracious acceptance. “You have better manners than I’d thought at first,” he said. “Although you’re hardly a gentleman.”

Brian huffed. “My reputation precedes me, I see.”

“It does, indeed,” G.G. said with a chuckle. “So tell me the truth, and Scout’s honor I won’t repeat it . . .”

“Scout’s honor?” Brian said with a snort. “Don’t try to tell me you were in the Boy Scouts.”

“Eagle Scout, in fact,” G.G. replied. “And ROTC in college. I thought all us queers did Boy Scouts . . .”

“Did, perhaps.” Brian’s accompanying smile was heavy with implication. “So, did you earn the Best Bottom Badge?”

“First badge, in fact,” G.G. replied. “I was thirteen. How old were you?”

“Fourteen.” Christ, he hardly ever thought about Mr. Culpepper, yet here he was talking about the bastard for the second time in twenty-four hours.

“Cry over him?” G.G. asked, setting down his bottle and holding Brian’s eyes with his.

Brian gave him his best “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” expression. “Yeah. Right,” he lied through his teeth. “I’ve never cried over anyone.”

“Bullshit,” G.G. replied. “We all do – at least once.”

Brian fixed him with a disbelieving gaze. This guy cried? A fucking former-ROTC carpenter wearing a biker vest with arms as hairy as a gorilla’s? Emmett, he could imagine. And definitely Ted. But George Goodfuck?

“Who was he?” G.G. ignored Brian’s obvious skepticism.

They engaged for a minute in an eye-wrestling contest. The stakes were too high for Brian to lose. He tried to make his expression as hard and cold as possible, although he suspected he only managed haughty. Nonetheless, it was G.G. who broke first.

“Mine was my troop leader,” he said. 

“How unimaginative.”

G.G. shrugged. “It was on an overnight. He invited me to his tent after all the other kids were asleep, told me to be really quiet. It was hard though. Fucking hurt. But he was alright. Even kissed me. It happened a couple more times, and then . . .” G.G. paused and took a swig of beer. “ . . . then I guess he lost interest. There were always new kids joining the troop. Fresh pickings. Told me he’d ‘had me.’ ‘Magine saying that to a kid.”

Brian winced. He threw back the last of his beer and began pacing with long determined strides. The soles of his feet were gritty from running after the kid . . . Justin. He had to stop thinking of him as the kid because . . . well, because it made him remember that Mr. Culpepper had called him the same thing. _Hey, kid,_ he’d said when he’d found Brian loitering near his car. _Buzz off._

Brian stopped mid-stride. 

“Gym teacher,” he said. “Freshman year. Blew him in the shower once and in his car a couple of times. Once in the gear closet. He never fucked me though.”

Brian didn’t add how he’d begged him to.

G.G. nodded in solidarity. “Can’t decide if I’m angry,” he said. “It wasn’t liked he raped me, except maybe statutorily, but statutory rape is bullshit. I wanted it.” He paused and drained the rest of his beer before setting it down in a gesture of finality. “What I _didn’t_ want was a broken heart. It’s never really gone away, I guess. Which is why I don’t fuck teenagers. And it’s why you shouldn’t have either.”

Brian had been standing with his back to him. “Chat’s over,” he said. He didn’t turn around.

“I figured,” G.G. replied. “Thanks for the beer.”

 

**Numbers Eleven and Twelve: The Beginning of the End of the Brian and Mikey Show – S1-E3**

_Finally!_

Brian had been trying to snag the guy in the silver shirt ever since they’d eye-fucked at Woody’s. God, he was hot. Definitely Brian’s match in the looks department.

“Finally,” he whispered in Silver Shirt’s ear. They smiled knowingly at each other and began dancing together to the throbbing beat that was the pulse of Babylon.

And then _he_ was there. The hot Puerto Rican guy with the boys-from-the-hood swagger. Brian had noticed him last weekend. He not only looked hot, he looked like fun. Both guys did. It was going to a good night – a _very_ good night.

The three of them danced, sizing each other up and checking out each other’s bodies. Brian was hard, and he wasn’t shy about letting the other two know it. He was the Alpha, the one who’d be calling the shots. The two guys were fucking hot for him . . .

. . . and then suddenly they weren’t. Brian gaped as both of them slipped away to dance with some other guy, a blond kid. They sandwiched blondie between them and caressed his young body while he soaked up their attention like a sex-starved sponge.

What the fuck?? Brian had been thrown over for a fucking twink!

Then the teenager turned his head and looked Brian square in the eyes.

Justin.

It was only a matter of time before the other two guys would have their hands in Justin’s pants. Brian knew what a fast track to the backroom looked like, and they were halfway there. With a kid who’d just lost his virginity less than forty-eight fucking hours ago! And to Brian, himself, nonetheless.

Before he knew what he was doing – or what he wanted to achieve – Brian was inserting his arms into the threesome and pushing his two would-be tricks out of the way. Justin was his. He’d pissed on that tree so to speak, and he wasn’t done with him yet. The two guys smiled and shrugged their acquiescence. Such was life in the jungles of Babylon.

Mikey was still on the balcony watching. Brian could feel his eyes without having to look. He was not going to be happy. Brian could fuck anyone he wanted, and Michael wouldn’t let Brian see that it bothered him, but for some reason, Michael had made it clear he didn’t want Justin around. Brian was defying him. Perhaps even betraying him.

He pulled Justin closer and looked up. Sure enough. There as Mikey. He smiled knowingly, and slowly Michael’s face softened into his usual expression of exasperated affection. _Don’t worry_ , Brian said with his gaze, knowing his best friend could interpret it. _It’s still just us. The Brian and Mikey show. Always has been, always will be. No matter what_.

**Numbers Thirteen, Fourteen and Fifteen: The Three Dudes at the Baths – S1-E4**

Shit, he was high. Three dudes. Not bad for a five minute stroll through the bathhouse. Shit, he was high. Two for each nipple and one for his cock. Shit, he was high . . .

. . . but not high enough. Ted, that Goddamned motherfucking asshole prick. Was this his revenge beyond the grave – well, not _beyond_ the grave, more like between the grave and a hospital room with a catheter up his dick for the rest of his life? 

Fuck.

Brian shoved the three dudes away, pulled his t-shirt down, shrugged on his leather jacket, put on his sunglasses and headed to the backdoor. Time to play the Angel of Death . . . or the Devil of Life. He wasn’t sure which, and he wasn’t sure which choice would send him to heaven . . . or to hell – metaphorical as both may be.

 

**Number Sixteen: The Angel – S1-E4**

He felt sick when he went to bed at night, and he felt sick the second he woke up. Work was a welcome distraction, but every now and then awareness elbowed its way into his brain. Drugs helped some, so did booze . . . and orgasms, of course. Orgasms always worked; they always had ever since that first time he’d tugged at his dick and white stuff came out. But he could only come five times – six, if he was lucky and the trick was worth his effort – in an hour. Every time his dick went soft, the memory resurfaced: Schmidt with tubes in his nose, silent and serene – almost beautiful – lingering somewhere between heaven and earth, waiting for Brian to fucking grow a pair. 

Why him? He and Ted were friends with the same people, but they weren’t really friends themselves. Brian tolerated him more than liked him, but here he was: the person who had to decide whether Ted died or lived as a vegetable for God only knew how long. If it were him, Brian knew _exactly_ what he’d want. He didn’t even have to think about it. He’d want to die; he just hoped to Christ there was someone who’d be willing – and able – to pull the plug. As for his family? Brian didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.

It’s stupid really. After all, he didn’t believe in God – or heaven and hell for that matter. But he did believe in angels and always had, ever since he was a kid. Of course, he’d eventually figured out that the angels he’d imagined protecting him were merely phantom surrogates for his parents, but he still liked the idea of winged beings floating around, now and then interfering when some poor asshole needed a hand.

Which was why Brian didn’t flinch when he felt the hand on his shoulder. He knew it didn’t belong to Mikey or Emmett or Linds or Deb, even though they were the only people he’d allow to touch him without an invitation. He’d been sitting at Ted’s bedside for hours, frozen with indecision and responsibility – both of which he loathed and avoided at all cost. He turned his head and looked up into kind, compassionate eyes.

Linds had said he’d do the right thing – whatever it was. She didn’t know that. But the man he was fucking made Brian believe her words. He would do the right thing. Their gazes never parted, even when they came – both of them at the same time. Brian embarrassed himself by tearing up, but the man in white didn’t seem to notice. Either that or he guessed (rightly) that Brian wouldn’t want his vulnerability acknowledged.

“Your friend is awake.”

They were the only words spoken between them. Brian got dressed as quickly as possible and threw aside the curtain. Sure enough. There was Theodore blinking confusedly. 

“Where am I?” Ted asked, his voice rusty with disuse.

Brian rolled his eyes. “Judging from the tubes and the blips and the sickening smell of ammonia and death, I’d say you were in the hospital.”

Ted turned his head, and looked at him. “Why are _you_ here?”

Brian scowled at him. “Because you made me be here. Believe me, it wasn’t my choice. There are a million things I’d rather be doing on a Friday night.”

Ted smiled and reached for Brian’s hand, which made Brian scowl even more, but he let Ted weave their fingers together anyway. They stayed like that without speaking for a long time.

Later, Brian stopped by the nurses’ station. He didn’t know what he wanted to say to the man he’d just fucked. Maybe just “good night” or “see you around,” but when he asked the woman where he could find the nurse with curling blond hair and blue eyes, she frowned and told him no one of that description worked there. Brian merely nodded; when he got back outside and started his Jeep, he paused. It was a clear autumn night, and the sky was full of stars. He tilted his head back and watched them for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

He jumped when his cell rang. He retrieved it from his coat pocket and flipped it open.

“Kinney.”

“It’s Michael. Get your ass over here. Your stalker is queening out in the guest bathroom, and my mom’s in full PFLAG mode.”

Brian laughed. Ordinarily, he’d find the situation anything but amusing, but not tonight. So the kid was stalking him and Mikey was having a hissy fit? So what? Ted woke up, and that was all that mattered.

“Be right there,” he said and hung up.

Life was good. 

 

**Number Seventeen: The Italian Tutor – S1-E5**

Gus was the scariest thing Brian had ever encountered. Gus didn’t even have to be in his arms – he only had to be in the same room for Brian to feel completely overwhelmed. Some of the emotions had names: protectiveness, affection, nervousness, attachment. But others merely existed, floating around, nameless and terrifying. 

Gus had his eyes. Everyone said so, and even Brian could see it. They were brown like Lindsay’s, but they were big and expressive and framed with thick lashes just like his. Looking at Gus was a bit like looking in a mirror, and when he was in a dark place, Brian worried about what other similarities he might’ve passed along. What about the anger that often bordered on rage? What about the disappointment that followed every achievement? What about the fear – the hatred – of being alone? Of being discarded? Of being found unworthy? Of being deserted. 

Gus’s presence stripped him naked and shredded his defenses. Gus made him dickless. He wasn’t a man when Gus was around . . .

. . . and clearly neither was last night’s trick.

The man wasn’t only a man – he was a full-on, card-carrying dude, all muscles and tattoos and limbs the width of trees. His voice was gruff, and he’d yelled and grunted a lot while Brian fucked him. It’d been like riding a bucking bronco, and by the end, Brian had been too exhausted to throw the guy out, which meant that when he awoke to the sound of someone knocking on the door, he found a hirsute Italian Dolomite in his bed.

“Who the hell are you?” he snapped.

“The guy you fucked last night,” the dude rumbled.

Brian frowned, trying to remember. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Were you any good?”

The knocking grew louder. Brian sat up and shielded his eyes from an onslaught of sunlight. “Okay, I coming!” he shouted and then turned to the Dolomite. “And you’re going.”

When he opened the door, it was Lindsay.

And Gus.

“Hi,” she chirped. “We just happened to be in the neighborhood, so I . . . Are we interrupting something?”

Brian turned to find the trick pulling on a tank top. There was a lot of hair everywhere – there wasn’t a doubt that it would be all over the bed. Ugh. Damn, he was one hell of a big dude!

“Not at all,” Brian said. “We’re all done.”

The dude nodded at Gus in Lindsay’s arms. “This your kid?” he rumbled. 

“Uhm, yes,” Lindsay said somewhat warily.

Brian tensed. Every single neuron suddenly clicked on as though his body was a stage and someone had flipped on the floodlights. He almost snarled like some weird kind of homo Alpha wolf. _Do NOT ask if you can hold him, buddy! I’ll rip your arm off and beat you over the head with it._

“Oh ho, he is _so_ precious,” the Dolomite sing-songed at Gus as a sneering Brian took his son into his arms and held him against his bare chest. “Hello, baby, hello.” Then he started making all sorts of goo-goo-gah-gah noises.

Goo. Goo. Gah. Gah.

Holy shit! He’d fucked a giant lesbian. A great, big, mountainous lesbian!

Apparently, Brain wasn’t the only guy unmanned by a baby. Wow. He didn’t know if the realization made him feel relieved that it wasn’t just him or horrified at the whole situation in general.

The man raised his head and caught Brian’s disdainfully gaze. He straightened his shoulders and schooled his face into an ultra-masculine expression.

“We’ll do this again,” he rumbled.

Brian turned away. “Yeah, sure,” he said drily. And then all there was was Gus. Brian smiled down at him. Everything else faded into the background.

“Let me guess,” Lindsay said knowingly. “Your Italian tutor?” She handed Brian one of Gus’s dangly toys.

Brian took it without looking away from the baby in his arms. “Grazie,” he said with a smile for his Sonny-boy. 

 

**Number Eighteen: The “Top” Who Hit the Bottom – Of the Stairs, That Is – S1-E5**

The guy was all over him in the elevator, pawing and groping and slobbering.

“Oh man,” he said, looking into Brian’s eyes. “I’m so horny. I want you to fuck me for hours, and I’m a top.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what all the biggest bottoms say,” he smiled and leaned forward for another slobbery kiss . . .

. . . and then suddenly someone was there with them. 

“Oh fuck,” Brian said when the out-of-breath former virgin popped through the door. There he was. Jesus fucking Christ. Justin. The puppy dog Brian had been trying to shake of his pants leg for days. Well, kind of.

“Jesus, who’s this?” the trick asked. He regarded Justin with contempt as though Justin was a flaming bag of dog shit that someone had left on Brian’s doorstep. Brian bristled. He didn’t like the trick’s tone of voice; it sounded proprietorial. 

“That's the president of my fan club,” Brian said exasperatedly. He turned to Justin. “What do you want?”

“My mom's out of control! Now she's following me!” The kid was panting and desperate . . . and way _way_ too much trouble for a Tuesday night.

Brian leaned against the door and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Must be an inherited trait,” he sighed.

“I’m not going home,” Justin said, undaunted by Brian’s annoyed expression.

“Well, you're not staying here.”

“There's nowhere else I can go. Do you want me to sleep on the street? I could get killed!”

The little shit. Really? _Really?_ Goddamn it! Brian’s dick had been hard for the last half an hour; all he wanted was to fuck the “top” into the mattress and then kick his ass out. He had an important account he was trying to win – no, scratch that – _expected_ to win. He didn’t want either of these two assholes spending the night . . .

. . . but then the trick got up into Justin’s face. “Why don't you get lost, you little asshole,” he snarled. “I was here first.”

Oh, no. Hell, no. Brian was starting to see the possibility that the night might end with him at the police station being booked with assault. He wanted to punch _both_ of them, but most of all the fucking trick. What did he think Brian was? A hotdog stand? If anyone was going to claim some kind of right to him, it was going to be Justin. He was the only one who had any kind of claim on Brian’s attention – threadbare as it may be. Plus . . . plus what? Well, just plus.

Brian moved in-between the trick and his target of ire. “Better yet,” he said menacingly, “why don’t you?”

The trick looked at him incredulously, and Brian shoved him out the door. “Beat it,” Brian told him.

“Fuck you,” the trick replied, trying to get in Brian’s face just as he’d done with Justin. Again. Hell, no.

“Yeah,” Brian said in his special “that’ll happen” tone of voice. “You’re the bottom, remember?” He slammed the door before he had to deal with more bullshit.

Justin smiled at him. “Thanks,” he said.

Brian glowered at him and started backing away. What the fuck? Could he possibly make himself any clearer? . . . He sighed. Oh, yeah. That’s right. He’d momentarily forgotten the two times Justin had spent the night, not to mention the knee-weakening blow job in Michael’s room. Maybe “clear” was a bit of an exaggeration.

“Look, I told you,” he said. “I'm not your lover, I'm not your partner, I'm not even your friend. You're not anything to me.”

Now _that_ was clear. Brian was proud of his no bullshit approach to tricking, but he’d never had to be so cold before, so ruthless. So cruel. It wasn’t fun, but it was necessary. This had to end. Now.

But instead of running away, clutching the bloody wound Brian’s words would’ve caused any other guy on the face of the planet, Justin began walking toward him.

“I could be,” he said with a shy smile. “If you gave me a chance.”

“Where did you learn to talk that way?” Brian asked incredulously. The situation was unbelievable. The kid was like a bunny hopping into the dragon’s lair, cornering the fire-breathing monster. “Watching some teen drama?” He turned away and stomped up the steps to his bedroom. He began taking off his sweater.

“I _need_ you,” Justin said to his retreating back. 

Brian pulled his sweater back down. “Need.” If ever there was a word in the English language that he hated, it was “need.” He wheeled around. “You _think_ that you do,” he said angrily. “Because that’s what you’re taught to think – we all ‘need’ each other. Well, it's a crock of shit. You're the only one you need; you're the only one you've got.”

Brian watched the bravado – and something that might be hope – slowly drain from the kid’s face. He looked like he might cry. This was the moment – the moment to push back, to twist the knife, or, at the very least, turn away. But instead he reached out reflexively and touched Justin’s cheek; the kid stepped towards him, mesmerized like a cobra’s prey. He was expecting a kiss – a kiss that must never come. Justin smiled, and Brian dropped his hand. He stepped back and grabbed a blanket off the couch. He thrust it into Justin’s hands. “The couch,” he said firmly. “And don’t jerk off on it.”

He turned away from Justin’s confused expression and walked back to the bedroom.

 

The alarm went off, and Brian’s brain went on autopilot. Brush teeth and floss, shower, jerk-off, shave, comb hair, get dressed, blow-dry and style hair, go to kitchen, make coffee, drink juice, take a thousand different vitamins, eat cereal, drink coffee, get briefcase . . .

Holy crap! There was a person on his couch! On his _couch_ , for God’s sake!

Oh, right. Justin.

The kid looked even younger asleep than he did when he was awake, which was scary. Brian took a few seconds to talk himself down from the ledge (“you’re _not_ a pedophile!”). Justin’s hands were balled up under his chin. He’d kicked off the blanket during the night, so there he was. In nothing but his underwear. With a very impressive morning hard-on.

Fuck. Now Brian had one too. He looked at his watch. No time for a fuck. He was already late picking up Mikey. He nudged Justin with his toe.

“Roust,” he said. “Up, up. I’m leaving, and you have to go to school. I’ll drop you off.”

Justin’s eyes flew open, and he sat up, looking confused. He blinked up at Brian. “I don’t have my uniform,” he said groggily.

Brian rolled his eyes. Great. Now what? “If this is a ploy to get me to let you stay here all day, then you can just forget it because you can’t. Jesus, if I become a reason that you’re failing high school, I’m going to shoot you, and then I’m going to shoot myself.”

“Hold on,” Justin said, looking around for his clothes. “I’ll call Daphne. She keeps one of my extra uniforms at her house.”

“I don’t need the details,” Brian grumbled. “Just hurry up.”

Justin stood and quickly realized the state of his . . . predicament. He grabbed the blanket from the floor and covered his groin.

Brian rolled his eyes again. “It’s not like I haven’t seen it,” he said. Justin blushed. Brian went to the kitchen while Justin was on the phone and poured some coffee in one of his travel mugs and added milk. Justin had spent the night twice before; Brian knew how he liked his coffee. Despite the fact that Brian had never _ever_ drank coffee with a trick before (even the few who spent the night), he tried not to think about the possibility that he might not mind having the kid around in the morning once and a while. For variety . . .

. . . no fucking way, Kinney. No. Fucking. Way. That way only bullshit laid, and he really didn’t need any more bullshit. 

Justin hung up the phone. “It’s all good,” he said. “You can drop me off at Daphne’s house.”

Brian poured some cereal into a bowl and drowned it in milk. “I can, can I? Thanks for giving me permission. Now sit down and eat. Quickly.”

Justin made a face. “Not hungry,” he said.

“I don’t care,” Brian replied. “Shut up and eat. Wasn’t it you who just last week lectured me on the importance of eating a healthy breakfast every morning?”

The huge smile on the twat’s face made it clear that he thought Brian’s recollection was a sign of his true undying love and devotion. Brian scowled at him.

This was it. This had to end. It _had_ to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Number Nineteen: The Must-Win Account – S1-E5**

So _that’s_ what it feels like to be a whore.

Brian never had sex for any reason other than his own pleasure – whether that pleasure lay in the hunt or in the act (preferably both), it didn’t matter. Of course, he’d had forgettable fucks, awkward fucks, boring fucks and even unpleasant fucks (“When the hell did dude last wash his ass?!”). Everyone did now and then, and given his promiscuity, he’d had more than a small share. It was just part of the price of playing the game.

But fucking a client for his business? That was unmapped territory. There’d been nothing pleasurable about the prospect of being blown for an account – even an account as lucrative as Telson Tires. What was he going to do when he made another presentation? Would Marvin wink and waggle his eyebrows and drop double entendres? Would he ogle Brian’s body and shift in his seat to accommodate a hard-on? God, it would be unbearable.

And what about him? He hated “slippery slope” arguments (they were so lazy), but this was about as slippery a slope as they come. Where would it end? A smaller account? A cheaper hotel room? An older, uglier CEO? If you say “yes” once, when can you start saying “no” again?

A steak and a baseball game never sounded more appealing. Why couldn’t Marvin be like every other CEO? Brian would’ve preferred going to the Cheerleaders Gentlemen’s Club (the agency had VIP passes). But no. It had to be Babylon, Brain and a blowjob or nothing at all. 

Jesus, Ryder was going to be _pissed_. He was a prick when he was in a _good_ mood. Brian was going to pay – maybe even dearly. Shitty accounts, lower commissions, being overlooked for conferences and award nominations. Fuck it. He’d never before been embarrassed to look himself in the eyes, but he was that night. Naked, sitting in a satin upholstered chair, drinking expensive champagne straight from the bottle. It should’ve been a beautiful tableau, a perfect setting for his perfect body. But he couldn’t hold his own gaze in the mirror. He’d tried, but he couldn’t.

Sex and shame. His life depended on keeping them separate. Even at the cost of losing his job. It’d been pathetic. The whole thing, and the fact that he’d been rescued by a little girl’s broken arm put the fucking icing on the sordid cake.

Never again.

 

**Number Twenty: The Guy at the Comic Store – S1-E6**

Phew! That was close! The last thing Brian needed was another brush with a virgin! 

Comic Store Guy wanted to get fucked right there in the Jeep, and Brian would’ve gladly accommodated him, but then the guy said the magic words: “Just go slow; this is my first time.”

Hell, no.

“Please tell me you’ve sucked cock,” Brian said. “Or, at the very least, jerked someone off.”

The guy grinned. “Been doing both since I was thirteen.”

Thank you, God.

“Good,” Brian said, “because here’s how it is: I don’t ass-fuck virgins. Been there, done that, still paying for it.”

Comic Store Guy was obviously disappointed, but Brian made it clear the offer was not open to negotiation.

“I’ll suck your dick, and you’ll suck mine,” he said, sweetening the offer with a practiced grope – palm on the dick, two fingers right behind the balls and then one – the middle finger, of course, pressed against the asshole. The guy whimpered. His cock was already leaking. Which was a good thing because Brian didn’t want to spend a long time blowing him. He had nice eyes (blue! score!), but his dick was nothing to write home about.

As it turned out, Comic Store Guy didn’t even last a minute. Brian spat out the come in the towel he kept in his Jeep just for that purpose and opened his own pants. The guy’s technique was lacking, but he made up for it with his enthusiasm. Brian came with a grateful sigh. He hadn’t fucked since the Italian Dolomite, and his balls ached. Jerking off helped, but it didn’t do the trick (pun intended, of course). Nothing could take the place of a slick, warm orifice.

Comic Store Guy was hard again after blowing him (damn teenagers), but Brian wasn’t in the mood to relieve him. He was sure there was an employee bathroom back in the store that the guy could make good use of. He zipped up his pants, buckled his belt and reached across the guy to open the passenger door. It was an unmistakable command, which, thank God, Comic Store Guy had no trouble interpreting. As soon as he was out of the Jeep, Brian started the engine.

“Thanks, man,” Comic Store Guy said with a wave and a big, cheerful grin. Brian put on his sunglasses, smiled back and drove away.

 

He got the same grin a second time at Justin’s little art show at the Center. So, Comic Store Guy was an artiste. That explained the pretentious Salvador Dali tattoo next to Spiderman. God, Brian hated tattoos. He’d have to find a subtle way to inform the little twat. Not, of course, that Brian cared; it would just be a waste if the kid’s flawless body was mottled with peace signs or skulls and barbed wire – not to mention, God forbid, a tramp stamp advertising a ready & willing hole. He’d always wondered what a tramp stamp would look like on some Florida retiree in a Speedo; given that it looked stupid on a nineteen year-old, it was certain to look even more so on a eighty year-old. Pathetic.

Comic Store Guy had the good sense to wait until he and Brian were out of eye and ear-shot to suggest they hook up again. Brian rarely fucked the same guy twice, but the guy’d only had a 50-second blowjob, and Brian felt sorry for him. Plus he was easy-going. Brian decided to reward him for both his tact and his pluck by agreeing. He needed to get the hell out of there before he told Justin to come home with him. It was bad enough that he’d kissed Justin in front of everyone. Lindsay was going to give him no end of shit; she (correctly) believed he was leading Justin on. He was glad she was there. Sometimes he needed the help of an external conscience when his inner one skedaddled after a couple glasses of bad wine.

“I’m not opposed to the idea,” Brian whispered in Comic Store Guy’s ear, sliding his hand down the kid’s back to squeeze his ass. “But I want you to do something for me before we leave – separately, by the way.”

Comic Store Guy’s eyes lit up.

“Nothing like that,” Brian chuckled. “Although there’ll be many other things you can do for me later.” The guy’s eyes lit up again, and he unconsciously licked his lips. “But what I want you to do right now is to go buy that drawing over there.” He pointed at the sketch Justin had done of him sleeping naked. He gave Comic Store Guy $200. “Bring it with you. I’m going out with friends for a bit. Be at my place in two hours. Here’s the address.” Brian handed him a business card he’d designed just for tricking.

 

If Comic Store Guy thought Brian was arrogant, it didn’t interfere with his craving for Brian’s cock. Brian settled back against his pillows and spread his legs. He’d positioned Justin’s drawing so he could see it while he got blown. So, “Sunshine” (as Deb had taken to calling Justin) had drawn it while Brian was asleep? How long had it taken? How long had Justin sat there caressing Brian’s body with his gaze, intent on capturing a moment he may never experience again? Brian closed his eyes and groaned; it wasn’t Comic Store Guy’s skill – or even enthusiasm – that was shoving him headlong toward his climax.

 

**Number Twenty-One: The Phone Call – S1-E7**

“I told you, six Fuller, corner of Tremont. Now get your ass over here. I've got this new dildo: nine inches long, seven inches round. I'm going to open up your hole with it, and then I’m gonna fuck you so hard your eyes'll roll back in your head.”

Mikey laughed. “Ever consider a career in phone sales?” he said when Brian hung up.

Ha ha.

Brian nudged him out the door. Fuck it. If Mikey wanted to frolic with the Doc in a bug infested cow pasture instead of going with him to Studs & Suds, that was his loss. Was he mad? Of course, he was mad. Mikey _never_ said no to him. What was so fucking great about the Doc anyway? He was old, his eyes were too small, and his skin looked tougher than a baseball glove. Plus, he was boring and pompous. In other words, a complete tool. Why would Mikey be attracted to a tool? And even more importantly: How could Mikey choose a tool over his best friend? He and Mikey _always_ went to Studs  & Suds!

It felt like a betrayal, which was stupid, but it did. Screw them both . . .

The phone rang again.

“Now what?” he snapped

“What’s your problem?” the trick snapped right back.

Brian frowned. “Didn’t you just call?”

“No,” the man replied irritably. “Listen, do you still want me to come or not?”

Brian froze. It wasn’t the trick he’d told to get his ass over there so Brian could open up his hole with a giant dildo and then fuck him until his eyes rolled back in his head?

“Wait, that wasn’t you?”

The guy sighed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “Listen, let’s just forget this.”

Brian didn’t try to change his mind. He hung up and began pacing. Wow. Crap. God, it could’ve been anyone. Lindsay. Deb. His fucking _mother_. But then again it could’ve been some perky Penn undergrad hitting him up for another alumni donation. Brian hoped it was the latter because that would be pretty funny. The other options? Not so much. Except for his mother. Now _that_ would be truly fucking hilarious.

Meanwhile, somewhere in suburbia, Craig Taylor’s comfortable little world burst apart like a snow globe struck with a sledgehammer.

 

**Number Twenty-Two: “Remember Me? We did it at the Baths a Couple Weeks Ago” – S1-E7**

“Hey!”

Brian was getting into his Jeep. Studs & Suds was a bust, and Theodore was an asshole who didn’t know shit about shit. 

_You always seemed to enjoy yourself when Michael was here_ , Ted had said. _But I guess it's not as much fun scoring without your little audience of one, is it? You know, as the great French philosopher Roquefort, or was it Camembert, once said: “It is not enough to trick. Your best friend must also go home alone.”_

God, sometimes Ted got up his nose more than anyone else in his life, which was saying something because _everyone_ got up his nose to one degree or another – even Mikey, especially lately.

“Hey! Remember me?”

Brian turned. Fuck. That guy from the baths. He was even uglier than Brian recalled. Brian hated it when tricks he’d brought home hit on him in public – or even talked to him for that matter. Fortunately, it rarely happened. He always made it clear there’d be no repeats and no hanging out together at Woody’s. It was the price of admission. But when it came to the baths and the backroom, Brian had always assumed the guys knew the shtick. He shouldn’t have to say anything. Baths and backroom fucks were as anonymous and no-strings-attached as fucks can get.

Brian gave the guy a cursory once-over and assumed a harassed expression. “Why, should I?” he asked dismissively.

“We did it at the baths a couple weeks ago,” the guy replied. He sounded incredulous that Brian didn’t remember him. Of course, Brian did – he remembered all his tricks, even the most anonymous and uninspired – but he had no intention of letting Scruffy Guy know it.

“I must’ve been very desperate,” Brian drawled. He got in the Jeep and started the engine. He hadn’t lied on that account. He _had_ been desperate. Mikey had told him they couldn’t meet up at Babylon because he had something planned with the Doc. Brian had been sufficiently pissed off to forego the backroom for the baths. You can’t really pound the shit out of someone in a backroom – it attracts too much attention. A good anonymous pounding was what the baths were for. Some guys even wore leather hoods so the fates of their asses wouldn’t be tethered to their faces. Brian never fucked them. It was just too pathetic in the true sense of the word. So Scruffy Guy hadn’t been wearing a hood, which left Brian wondering what he’d been on that lowered his standards so drastically.

“Fuck you!” Scruffy Guy yelled as Brian backed the Jeep out of the parking space. He hit the hood with his fist. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

A nearby group of twinks laughed and hooted. Scruffy Guy shouted a farewell “fuck you!” and Brian drove away. _Who the fuck do you think you are?_ Brian smiled and shook his head. _Brian Kinney, that’s who, you asshole. Get with the fucking program_.

He needed some music. The cassette that was playing was one of Mikey’s horrible mixes. Brian jabbed the eject button. There were too many cassettes that all looked the same all over the place, all of them without cases. He picked one up and squinted at the label . . .

. . . the next thing he knew there was pain and glass and blood on his face. Jesus Christ! What the fuck! He looked into his rearview mirror and saw the car speeding toward him for another hit.

“What are you doing, you crazy fuck?” he shouted, and then there was another collision accompanied by the sound of crunching metal. By the time Brian thought of looking at the bastard’s license plate, he was gone. Crazy motherfucker!

He shook violently as the surge of adrenaline crested and began to recede. His nose was bleeding, and there was a gash on his temple that would probably need stitches, but nothing was broken, thank God. Except for his beloved Jeep. He punched the steering wheel. Crazy motherfucker. The guy’s name was for shit now. Once Emmett found out, it would be less than a day until the rest of gay Pittsburgh found out too. Maybe a few pathetic fags Brian had turned down would make Scruffy Guy a hero, but countless more will avoid him like the plague. You didn’t fuck with Brian – and you don’t fuck anyone who has. It wasn’t a threat; Brian couldn’t give a shit who fucked who and for what reason. It was just a fact. Like the weather.

It took a couple of minutes to get the door open. A car stopped and a guy asked if he needed help. Brian shook his head and waved him on. All he needed were the cops. No ambulance! If he had to go to the hospital, Mikey would take him. Brian pulled his cell out of his pocket and was halfway through dialing his number when he stopped. Mikey couldn’t come get him; he was in some fucking log cabin in the woods with the Doc. Brian almost threw his phone on the ground and stomped on it. Who else could he call? Deb and Vic didn’t have a car; Emmett didn’t have a car. Only Ted had a . . .

Crap. Either he called Ted or he rode in the fucking ambulance. He hated ambulances. He could remember sitting on his bed with his knees tucked under his chin and his arms around his shins while red lights slid along the walls. They’d never had to carry his mom out on a stretcher, but that only meant they didn’t have to call the cops. The police didn’t get involved with “domestic incidents” unless someone had been beaten unconscious. Especially when “the incident” involved a fellow Hibernian.

“Who is this?” Ted shouted over the background of dance music and sudsy queers.

“It’s Brian,” Brian shouted back. 

“Who!”

“Brian!”

There was a momentary silence. “Brian?” Ted asked. “As in Brian Kinney?”

Jesus Christ. “How many other Brians do you fucking know? Yes, Brian Kinney!”

Suddenly the cacophonous background receded. Ted must’ve gone outside.

“What’s wrong?” he asked frantically, probably thinking that only a near-death experience would cause Brian to call him. He wasn’t wrong.

“Don’t have a conniption; I had a little accident, that’s all,” Brian said trying to sound bored and utterly unconcerned. “I think I might need stitches. The Jeep’s trashed. Get your ass over here and take me to the hospital.”

“Oh my God!” Ted gasped. “Brian, are you okay? How bad is it? Is there anyone I can call? Listen, I’ll bring Em with me; we’ll take care of you. You’re going to be alright.”

Brian rolled his eyes. The prospect of a ride in an ambulance no longer seemed so awful compared to Ted’s histrionics. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?” he said. “I managed to dial my cell phone. How bad can it be? Just get your ass over here. Don’t tell Emmett. Either he’ll have to take the time to rinse and dry off or he’s going to get bubbles all over your accountant-mobile.” He heard sirens. “Tenth Street intersection. Hurry the fuck up.” He flipped his phone closed.

He told the cops he didn’t know who hit him or why. Scruffy Guy was a psychopath, but he was still a fellow fag. Plus Brian had no desire to explain the context of their acquaintance. All he wanted was a report. Let his insurance company hammer out the details.

Moments later, Ted screeched to a halt and hurdled himself out of his car. “Brian!” he cried and ran toward him. 

Brian covered his face and peeked out through his fingers as though he was watching a gory scene in a horror movie. 

“Oh my God, you’re bleeding! Why didn’t you say it was a head wound? You might have a concussion!”

“Don’t worry, sir,” one of the officers said. “We’ll take him to Alleghany. The ambulance will be here any second.” He looked amused.

“I don’t want an ambulance,” Brian said. “That’s why I called this lunatic. I have a phobia.”

The officer nodded. He didn’t seem all that concerned about the whole situation. “Fine,” he said, “just don’t drive.”

Ted opened the passenger side door for Brian and helped him get in as though Brian was some little straight girl and Ted was his chivalrous beau. He even reached down between Brian’s legs to adjust the seat.

“I swear to fucking God, Theodore, if you’re trying to cop a feel, I will punch you in the face, and then we’ll both have concussions. Just drive, okay?”

Ted looked offended. “I would never take advantage of an addled and vulnerable man,” he replied.

Brian heard the teasing in his voice and relaxed. He explained what happened in as little detail as possible.

“Jesus,” Ted said. “He could’ve killed you.”

Brian looked at him. “Yeah,” he said. “Tricking can be dangerous.”

Ted smiled a rueful smile and nodded. “Tell me about it.”

They drove on in silence. Brian had stopped shaking, and now he was exhausted. He slumped in the seat and closed his eyes.

Ted punched him in the thigh. “Don’t fall asleep,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

Brian glared at him, but as usual, Ted was right.

“Are you going to call Michael?”

Brian turned his head to look out the window. “Why? What the fuck can he do? Last I knew he wasn’t a shaman capable of healing wounds with some gibberish and incense.”

Ted ignored his petulance. “He could stay with you. Make sure you’re okay.”

Brian turned to look at him. “He’s with the fucking Doc. You know that. Why the fuck do you think I’d call _you_ of all people if Michael wasn’t off in the fucking forest somewhere?”

Ted didn’t reply or even look at him. Brian watched his profile for a moment and felt like a shit. Here Ted was, driving Brian’s ass to the hospital at one o’clock in the morning when he could be hanging out at Babylon and all the while not expecting any thanks for his effort because he knew Brian didn’t do gratitude.

Pathetic. If Ted had any dignity, he would’ve told Brian to fuck off. He should’ve. He would’ve instantly gone up in Brian’s estimation. But he hadn’t; he’d come rushing to Brian’s side like a pathetic loser.

Ted didn’t speak again until they arrived at the hospital. By then, Brian didn’t feel well. At all. The nausea hit so hard and so fast that he barely opened the car door in time. Ted rubbed his back soothingly as he vomited. Brian had never heard of anyone throwing up because of a head wound, and suddenly he was frightened. Maybe things were worse than they’d seemed. Ted’s comforting touch and equally comforting words made him feel better. He wasn’t alone. Someone was there to look after him. Someone cared for him . . .

. . . Brian felt a stab of self-hatred when he realized Ted had just slipped another couple of notches. Not for the first time, he fleetingly acknowledged that he was hopelessly fucked in the head – and it had nothing to do with a concussion.


	4. Chapter 4

**Number Twenty-Three: It’s Always Better the Second Day – S1-E8**

The door slammed. Brian stood with his mouth open in the silence left behind in the wake of Justin’s mother. What the fuck had just happened? He looked at the door, then at the duffle bag full of Justin’s shit on his desk, and then back again at the door.

The answer was obvious; he was asleep, and this was all a very _very_ bad dream. Except he wasn’t asleep, and this wasn’t a dream. He could tell because his ribs hurt every time he drew a breath. Putting on his shoes that morning had been fucking torture.

Justin’s mom had tossed her son at him like a human-shaped bag of cement mix – at least it’d felt that way – and told him to make sure Justin took his allergy medicine, did his homework and got to school on time. All of a sudden Brian was the foster father of a bratty teenager . . .

. . . a bratty teenager who was currently bopping around the loft, wearing Brian’s shirt and listening to God only knew what crap on Brian’s C.D. player.

Brian had never had a migraine, but he did now. Nausea, sensitivity to light, the desire to crawl into a hole and die. All of the symptoms were there.

And then Justin baulked at his lights-out curfew. It was the last fucking straw.

 

For the second time in three days, Brian found himself chatting with Pittsburgh’s finest, except this time _he_ was the bad guy from whom society needed protection.

The cop was chewing gum. Was that even allowed? “Sir, you do realize that this isn’t merely a driving infraction for which you will be fined, I could book you right now on at least five different counts of criminal behavior. You could’ve killed someone.”

Brian bit his lip and turned aside. What had he been thinking, driving through a plate glass window? “Well, I didn’t,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“That’s why we have a charge called ‘attempted murder.’ For assholes like you who only escape a murder charge by the skin of their teeth. ‘Almost’ isn’t a defense.”

“Look,” Brian said. “I fucked up. I wasn’t thinking. Fortunately, no one was hurt. I’m just going to have to pay for a new window, which I’m willing to do right now. In cash.”

“I’m not in the business of assessing property damage,” the cop said gruffly and then snapped his gum. Brian wanted to tell him that pink gum undermined his ‘tough guy’ act but refrained. “That’ll be the job of the insurance company as part of your inevitable law suit. Now, listen, because this man here” – he nodded at the salesman – “willingly conceded that he provoked your actions, I’m only going to charge you with reckless driving and criminal mischief. You’re damn lucky, pal.”

Brian hated being called “pal,” but, as with the pink gum observation, he decided to keep it to himself. 

“So, I’m writing up the charges and giving you a promise to appear in court. You will be notified, and listen, buddy, you better do it. I’ve arrested you for two misdemeanors; failing to show up on your court date is a felony.”

Brian nodded and accepted the ticket. He hated being called “buddy” even more than he hated being called “pal.”

He followed Lindsay home in his new fully-loaded Jeep. He’d asked her to please wait to scream at him until they were in private. Fortunately Melanie wasn’t around.

At first she was speechless. Her mouth opened and closed, and she occasionally emitted a little squeak that might have been an embryonic word. He waited. She took a deep breath. He winced and braced himself.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, BRIAN? YOU COULD’VE KILLED SOMEONE – OR YOURSELF! THAT WASN’T FUNNY; IT WAS CRAZY! _YOU’RE_ CRAZY! BAT SHIT CRAZY! YOU’RE LUCKY YOU’RE NOT IN JAIL RIGHT NOW! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND? DO I NEED TO CONTACT THE MENTAL WARD? GOD, BRI, YOU’RE A MESS! FIRST, A PSYCHO TRICK NEARLY KILLS YOU; THEN JUSTIN’S FATHER NEARLY KILLS YOU AND NOW THIS! THAT’S A LOT OF DRAMA, EVEN FOR YOU! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?”

Thankfully, she ran out of breath and went back to opening and closing her mouth and squeaking like an outraged guinea pig.

Wow. Not bad for an emotionally-constipated WASP.

“Nothing’s going on,” he said and flopped on the couch. “That asshole pissed me off; that’s all. I bought the Jeep, didn’t I?”

She was still standing, her hands on her hips, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Is it work? Is it your Dad? Is it your stupid issues with Michael’s boyfriend? Have you maxed out your last credit card? Contracted a venereal disease? Are you suffering from erectile dysfunction? What? Please enlighten me!”

Brian just shrugged. Something was always wrong in his life, so it was hard to discern whether it was even more fucked up than usual. Was he struggling with his role of father – no matter how small it was? Was it that Michael was increasingly choosing the Doc over him? Was it the fact he had a stalker squatting in his Safe Place? Was it the fact he couldn’t fuck said stalker/squatter even though he wanted to so badly that it made his teeth hurt?

How about “all of the above?”

“Listen, he said, trying his best to sound calm and rational. “Perhaps I have a couple more things on my plate than usual. I’m fine. I’ll handle it. You don’t need to call the fucking loony bin again.”

Lindsay sat down beside him and took his hand. “Please don’t make me have to,” she said anxiously. “But things are starting to look like they did when you . . .”

“That was college,” he said. “Everyone’s allowed to lose their shit when they’re in college. Especially queers. It’s a rite of passage. Look, I’m not going to kill myself . . .”

“Or anyone else?”

“Or anyone else. I promise. Maybe I’m more rattled than I thought by the accident. Maybe I’m not eating enough fruits and vegetables.”

Lindsay squeezed his hand sharply and glared at him. “Don’t make light of things.”

Brian grinned at her. He could see the reproach in her eyes give way – albeit reluctantly – to her customary fondness.

“You’re such an asshole,” she said affectionately, cupping his cheek. “Now take the day off, go home, and smoke some pot.”

“Doctor’s order?” He leaned over and kissed her. Just like Mikey, she couldn’t resist, no matter how annoyed she was, and just like Mikey, she followed him with her eyes still closed when he pulled away.

 

Part of him acknowledged what he was doing: HotLanta wasn’t just another trick. He was Brian’s revenge on the universe. A bizarro universe in which Mikey was rejecting him and a one-night stand hadn’t gone away.

Justin had to face the facts: He was at the loft because Brian had no choice but to let him stay. Brian didn’t want him there. He didn’t want to have to check his homework and make sure he ironed his school uniform. He didn’t like to have to wait to use his bathroom or make room in the fridge for Justin’s Hot Pockets and bottles of Dr. Pepper. . . . But most of all, he didn’t want to wake in the armpit of the night to the sound of quiet sniffles coming from the couch. The emotions they triggered were uncomfortable. Brian didn’t do “uncomfortable.” 

It was high time to shove Justin off a cliff. A cliff with a sweet smile and a southern accent.

He hadn’t known exactly what to expect when he slid open the door and tumbled through it with HotLanta in his arms, but the smell of cooking and the sound of clattering bowls hadn’t been on the list, although in hindsight, it should’ve been. Brian had made Justin feel like a hemorrhoid he couldn’t get rid of, and now the kid was trying to be useful and earn his keep. Fuck fuck _fuck_. Brian was going to have to be crueler than even he felt comfortable being. And then, as if things weren’t bad enough, HotLanta turned out to be a total Mikey-style sweetheart who practically adopted Justin within seconds of walking through the door.

“Mmmm, it's not bad,” he said, tasting what Justin claimed to be jambalaya. “Now what you need is an itsy-bitsy pinch of cayenne pepper. That’s what gives it an extra special kick.” He smiled at Justin’s cherubic face.

Goddamn it! Now, not only will Justin think he’s a complete fucking asshole, his trick will too. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“He’ll get an extra special kick later,” Brian said, his voice simmering on the edge of menacing. He looked at HotLanta. “Now, you can stand around here eating jambalaya, or you can come upstairs and eat my ass!” He threw off his leather jacket and stripped off his shirt. He looked Justin straight in the eyes; his gaze intense, purposeful . . . and mean.

 _Get the fuck out of my loft_ , his eyes said. _And the fuck out of my life. You don’t mean shit to me_.

Justin didn’t even turn off the burner before running away. No wonder he took honors classes; the kid was no fucking dummy. He knew a kick in the face when he felt it.

“Kid brother or cute charity case?” HotLanta asked after he’d swallowed a throat-full of Brian’s come. 

“Huh?” The guy’s technique had been polished enough to make Brian forget his own name for a few seconds, a gift for which he was thankful. Forgetfulness could never be too expensive.

“The kid who was here when we came in. By the way, if he’s not coming back, you should turn off the stove. The rice’ll burn.”

Brian staggered to the kitchen. Jesus, what a fucking mess. Justin was going to clean up every last Goddamn spot . . .

Except he wasn’t. That was why HotLanta was here. To insure Justin never came back and Brian never saw him again. He grabbed the pot of jambalaya and started pouring it down the drain. He didn’t realize he was shaking until HotLanta put his hand on his shoulder.

“Listen,” he said with his soothing drawl, “don’t throw it away. Like the kid said, it’s always better the second day. Just put it in the fridge and come back to bed.”

 

They fucked until dawn, and to Brian’s chagrin, it wasn’t just dildos and nipple clamps and a good hard pounding on all fours. Half the time it was face-to-face with a lot of kissing punctuated with a little southern storytelling between erections. 

“I like you,” Brian said incoherently as he drifted off to sleep. “You’re a nice guy.”

Hotlanta put his arm around him and kissed him. “I like you, too,” he said. “But I won’t go so far as to say you’re a nice guy.”

Suddenly, Brian was wide awake. He propped himself on his elbow and glared at his bedfellow. “Thanks a fucking lot,” he said. 

HotLanta smiled at him sleepily. “Are you saying I’m wrong?”

Brian stared down at him. No, he wasn’t wrong. Brian was many things, but “a nice guy” was not on the list.

“Look,” HotLanta said. “It’s none of my business, and I’ve been up north long enough to know your manners aren’t my manners, but unless that kid had a car parked outside and a place to drive to, he probably slept on the streets. No matter what your reasons were for making him leave, a ‘nice guy’ wouldn’t have let that happen.”

Brian’s mind shut down for a second before it burst open spraying the inside of his skull with shards of panic. Jesus. The guy was right. Where the hell _did_ Justin go? It was too much to hope that he’d gone home to his parents’ house. There was no way that’d happen after his dad attacked Brian.

_You’re not crying, are you?_

_I’m not some little faggot_.

 _No, you’re not; you’re pretty brave actually, standing up to your father like that_.

 _He was hurting you_.

Brian hadn’t needed a fucking Rosetta Stone; Justin’s words had been easy to translate: _My dad hurt Brian. There was no choice. I couldn’t go with him after he’d beaten and kicked the man I love like a dog_.

No, Justin didn’t go home.

Brian groaned and covered his face with his hands. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that. He wasn’t an idiot, but he’d sure done some idiotic things recently. 

_Do you know what happens to runaway kids, Mr. Kinney?_

_They end up on milk cartons_.

 _Or worse_.

It was too early to get drunk, but there was always fucking. He rolled HotLanta onto his stomach, hastily put on a condom, mounted him and shoved his cock in his ass in a single practiced thrust. When he was fucking, he didn’t have to imagine Justin huddled in a doorway or stretched out on a bench in some hobo-infested park. He didn’t have to imagine Justin walking and walking and walking, waiting for the sun to rise so he could go to school. He didn’t have to imagine Justin in some psychopath’s apartment, tied up and gagged – or, worse, drugged or beaten or dead.

_Do you know what happens to runaway kids, Mr. Kinney?_

The phone rang just as he was about to come.

“What?” he snapped. “This had better be fucking important.”

“Bri? It’s Linds. Did I wake you?” 

“Worse,” he growled. He’d lost his erection and had to pull out before the condom slipped off.

“Good.”

“What do you mean ‘good’? Listen, Linds. I don’t have time to talk. I fucked up last night big time . . .”

“Hmmm, you don’t say.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know,” she said. “I should just let you torture yourself with guilt. You deserve it even more than usual, but I’ve got higher priorities and one of them is helping the poor kid who showed up on our doorstep after midnight with nothing but the clothes on his back and a couple of ones in his wallet.”

Brian actually groaned out loud with relief. “Thank _God_ ,” he said. He felt boneless with a release that no orgasm on earth could’ve given him.

“Indeed. We’re lucky Justin seems to have the memory of an elephant because he at some point memorized our address. Where the hell did you think he was going to go, Brian?”

“Like I said, I fucked up.”

She ignored him. “You’re sorting this out. Call his mom. Help him go back home. If you don’t want him, Bri, then at least give him back to the people who do . . .”

There was a strange rustling sound on the other end of the line.

“Are you feeling proud of yourself this morning?” 

Shit. Melanie must’ve grabbed the phone.

“I sure as hell hope so, you fucking prick.”

“Mel!” Lindsay cried. “Stop it! That’s not going to make anything better!”

There was what sounded like a wrestling match, and then Linds got back on the line.

“I’ll help if you want me to,” she said. Her voice had lost its edge. She probably felt Mel had said anything that’d still needed saying.

Brian sighed. “No, but thanks though. I’ve got to do this.”

“I think you’re right,” she said. “Just . . . Bri, just don’t hurt him anymore than you already have. He’s a sweet kid. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“I’d been _trying_ to do this the nice way. It’s not like I enjoyed taking the nuclear option . . .”

More rustling. Shit.

“But you sure as hell enjoyed fucking him, didn’t you, asshole!”

“What the hell? Am I on speaker?”

“Oh shit . . .” Linds said. “Mel!”

Melanie’s voice went from cunty to cooing in a nanosecond. “Hey there, Justin. Have something to eat, and I’ll take you to school on my way to the office.”

“Who were you just talking to?”

Brian closed his eyes and scrubbed his face with both hands. Jesus Christ, what a clusterfuck.

“No one, sweetheart,” Melanie said. “Do you want coffee or tea?”

“Was it Brian? Did you yell at him? You did, didn’t you? Shit. Now he’ll think I came running to you guys and complained about him.” Justin’s voice sounded defeated. “He’s going to hate me even more than he already does.”

“Sweetie, don’t cry . . .”

“I’m not crying. I have allergies.”

Will one of them please hang-up the fucking phone? He’d rather be put in the stocks and have rotten vegetables thrown at his head than hear Justin cry again. At this point, even hot needles shoved under his fingernails would be pleasant in comparison.

“Listen, baby,” Melanie said. “We’re going to get this all sorted out, okay? You go to school, and when it’s over, you’ll have a place to go . . . and it won’t be with that fucking prick.”

“That’s alright,” Justin said. “He doesn’t want me anyway. He never did. God, going home with him was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my whole life.”

Brian threw the phone across the room. He couldn’t say what hurt more – Justin’s words . . . or the fact that they were true.

“I can’t tell whether that was good news or bad,” Hotlanta said. He sat up and propped a pillow behind his back. 

Brian covered his face with his hands again. “How long are you in town for?” he asked.

“A couple more days. I’m visiting a friend. I live in New York.”

Brian snorted and lifted his head. “Good,” he said, reaching for his Marlboros. “Because if you were from anywhere within a hundred miles, I wouldn’t tell you what I’m about to tell you.” He offered HotLanta a cigarette, but he declined.

“About to unburden yourself?” HotLanta asked. He reached over and gently squeezed the back of Brian’s neck. “You can start anywhere – even childhood. I’ve got nowhere to be till lunch.”

Brian didn’t look at him. He took a long drag and released the smoke with a weary sigh.

“Complaining about childhood is bullshit. It’s for fags whose balls haven’t dropped yet . . .”

“Well, yours certainly have; I know firsthand.”

Brian laughed humorlessly. He took another drag and released it before he started to speak again.

“Actually, complaining in general is bullshit. I’ve got nothing to complain about. I’ve got a fancy job, nice clothes, a half-a-million dollar loft and a brand new Jeep. I can fuck whoever I want whenever I want, and I have friends who put up with my shit despite being constantly splattered with it. So, I don’t have anything to complain about.”

“That’s refreshing,” HotLanta said. “It sounds like you’ve been very lucky.”

Brian snorted ruefully. “Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it. Who needs luck when you think you’re entitled to everything you have?”

“And you think you’re entitled to everything you have. So why do you look so miserable?”

Brian was surprised. “I look miserable?”

“Why do you attract people who want to save you if you don’t look like you need saving? I would’ve gone home with you regardless, but you give off a kind of need that sealed the deal. I was that kid who was always saving baby birds.”

_Baby birds!!_

“I am _not_ a baby bird.”

“And you’re not dumb enough to think I was being literal.”

Brian laughed, this time with genuine amusement. “I like you,” he said for the second time since they’d met. “But I _don’t_ need saving.”

HotLanta shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree. Go on.”

Brian stubbed out his cigarette and lit a new one. “I wanted that kid like you would not fucking believe,” he said. “It was crazy.”

“The one you drove away last night?”

Brian nodded. “Yeah.” He was quiet for a long time, remembering back to that night. It was only three weeks ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. He looked up at the ceiling. “You know what’s completely fucked up?” he asked. “I don’t think he’d ever even kissed a guy, let alone done anything more. I must’ve blown his fucking mind.”

“Gave him the full-on trick treatment?”

“And then some. I rimmed him till my fucking tongue hurt and fucked him in every position in the Karma Sutra.”

“Zero to sixty.”

“More like zero to a hundred.”

“And then what?”

Brian was still looking up at the ceiling. He shook his head. “What do you think? I kicked him to the curb.”

“Obviously it didn’t register.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“So what happened?”

“What happened is that he fell in love with me, came out to his parents, ran away when his dad rejected him, and had the misfortune of ending up back on my metaphorical doorstep.”

“You threw the boomerang . . .”

“. . . and it came back to hit me in the fucking head. Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.” Brian took a drag on his cigarette. “Now he has no place to live and no one he can rely on, and he hasn’t even graduated from fucking high school yet.”

HotLanta raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Can’t say I envy his life right now – or yours. You don’t strike me as a person who enjoys looking in a mirror and not liking what he sees.”

“Does anyone?” Brian smiled and shook his head. “No, I don’t like it. And I don’t like knowing I’ve fucked up someone’s life.”

“So find a way to unfuck it.”

They both laughed. “Talk about being unable to un-ring a bell,” Brian said. He stubbed out his cigarette and sighed. “Last night was the lowest blow I’ve ever thrown in my whole life, which is saying something.”

They didn’t speak for several minutes.

“So now what?” HotLanta said, breaking the silence that had settled over them.

“Now I get in touch with his mom.”

“How?”

“She gave me a check for her son’s ‘upkeep,’ which, before you say anything, I intend to rip up and throw away. I still have it. I’m hoping her phone number is on it.” 

HotLanta smiled and kissed his cheek; it was hard for Brian to accept how much the tenderness of a stranger meant to him right at that moment.

“Can I use your shower?”

“It’s through there. Towels are under the sink, and I have a toothbrush stash. Choose your favorite color and consider it a souvenir. You never know; it might be worth something someday.”

HotLanta laughed and disappeared into the bathroom. Brian got up and put on a robe. It took him at least a half dozen tries before he actually dialed all seven digits of Mrs. Taylor’s phone number.

“Hello, this is Jennifer.” Her voice sounded tired. 

Brian took a deep breath. “It’s Brian,” he said. “Brian Kinney, the guy who . . .”

“I know who you are,” she said. “Please just tell me that Justin is okay and that you’re going to get him to school on time. He has a calculus exam first period.”

Brian walked over to the window. The city was waking up. Thank God, he didn’t have to imagine Justin somewhere out there, although what were the chances he’d studied for an exam? If he hadn’t brought home a trick, Brian could’ve made sure Justin did his homework . . . . Jesus, the kid was going to fail out of school, and it was going to be his fault.

“He’ll get to school on time, don’t worry.” Brian kept his voice calm and unconcerned; he didn’t want Justin’s mom to go postal on him. Mothers who actually loved their children were scary – in many ways much scarier than mothers who don’t. Which was why Deb scared the shit out of him and always had from the day they first met when she came home early and caught him and Mikey drinking Jack’s Jameson – mixed with Fresca of all things. Eehh.

“I just want him back,” she said tearfully. “Both I and his father do. He’s our baby. Can’t you talk to him?”

How fortuitous. He didn’t even have to come up with a segue.

“That’s very good to hear. I’m sure he wants to go home. My place is . . . well, it’s kind of small for two people.”

She sighed with relief. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr. Kinney.”

Ick. No more of this ‘Mr. Kinney’ shit. It made him feel like a creepy kindergarten teacher who liked looking up little girls’ dresses while they played on the jungle gym at recess.

“Call me ‘Brian,’” he said. “How about I pick him up at school and bring him to your house? Things might go smoother if he knows this is something I want too.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll make sure his father’s home when you arrive.”

Great. 

She must’ve guessed from his silence that he was less than thrilled with prospect of encountering her husband again. “He’s really not like that,” she said in a rush. “He’s just been . . . caught off guard by Justin’s . . . disclosures. He’ll calm down. He wants Justin home as much as I do. And I think he’ll feel much better when he finds out he doesn’t have to play a game of tug of war with you.”

“Right,” Brian said. If there was one thing Mr. Taylor didn’t have to worry about it was that Brian was going to fight him for his son. This was what was best for all of them – especially Justin. It was no time to play ‘Who’s Da Man’ with Justin’s dad. It was going to be a nice, clean handover. On the way there, he’d tell Justin to behave himself.

“You look like a huge weight’s been lifted off your shoulders,” HotLanta said as he came down the steps pulling on his t-shirt. 

Brian had just hung up. He turned around. “It has been,” he said. “That was his mom. This is going to get all sorted out this afternoon.”

HotLanta patted him on the back and then looked down at his t-shirt with chagrin. “Crap,” he said. “Why do I dress up like a slut when I’m hoping to go home with someone? What looks hot at night can look pretty stupid in the morning.”

Brian laughed and walked to his bedroom. He came back down with a t-shirt in his hand. “Tell you what,” he said. “We’ll trade. You can have my ‘Pittsburgh is the Pitts’ if I can have your HotLanta.”

“Deal,” HotLanta said and stripped off his t-shirt. He and Brian were the same size so the new one fit perfectly. 

“Definitely a better souvenir than a toothbrush,” Brian said, and then he did something he never did; he pulled HotLanta into a hug. HotLanta rubbed his back. Except for Mikey, Brian wasn’t used to touching or being touched by someone he wasn’t planning to have sex with. It felt nice.

“Good luck,” HotLanta said when he stepped back. “I hope everything works out okay.”

Brian smiled. “Yeah, me too." He walked with HotLanta to the door.

The man had descended a couple of steps when he stopped and turned to look back at Brian. “Don’t forget,” he said. “There’s jambalaya in the fridge, and I’ll bet it’s real good – always is the second day. Don’t let it go to waste.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Number Twenty-Four: Mr. The-Glass-is-Half-Full – S1-E10**

“At least the bed’s still here.”

Brian’s new personal trainer was his dream trick: Undaunted by calamity and able to keep his eyes on the prize (namely Brian’s cock) despite Brian’s queen-sized meltdown. Brian rewarded him with an expert – albeit brief – fuck. They were still getting dressed when the police arrived.

“You should probably hang out in the bathroom until they leave,” Brian said. “There’s porn in the bottom drawer of the cabinet by the toilet.”

“Great,” Mr. The-Glass-is-Half-Full guy said cheerfully. “Good luck.”

Brian slid open the door. He’d gone years without having to deal with the cops and now this was the third time in ten days. Lindsay was right; his life really was on the shoulder of the road and headed for the ditch. And just in time for Halloween, which, as fate would have it, was the anniversary of the first time he got arrested. He’d T.P.ed the principal’s house with a trunk-load of rolls. Must’ve taken the bastard forever to get all the streamers out of his trees. It was well worth the thumping he got from Jack when Child Protective Services called.

The cops took a cursory survey of the plundered loft and asked a few questions that Brian answered with boldfaced lies.

“What’re the chances you’ll catch the guy?” Brian asked, scratching his neck irritably.

“Not high,” said the fat one. 

“There were more than 2,000 burglaries in downtown alone last year,” the skinny one said. “Only about a hundred were solved. We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

In other words, too bad, buddy. Hope your insurance policy has a low deductible.

The cops left, and Brian slid the door closed more forcibly than necessary.

“Gotta get back to the gym,” Mr. The-Glass-is-Half-Full said. “Hope you get everything sorted out. See you Thursday at noon? Don’t forget to eat breakfast this time. You should be lifting nearly twice the weight you were today.”

Brian gaped at him. Well, at least there was one thing he could say about his new trainer: the guy’s muscles were the real McCoy. No one taking steroids could be so chirpy and upbeat.

Mr. The-Glass-is-Half-Full left just as Mikey arrived. They exchanged cordial “hello”s on the stairs.

“Whoa! He’s hot,” Mikey said “ . . . Holy shit!”

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose. Usually he loved to brag about his conquests, but not today.

“Do you want me to help make a list of all the stuff that was stolen?” Mikey asked, looking around in shock.

“No,” Brian said evenly. “I’ll do it tomorrow. What I need you do to right now is keep me from murdering that little fuck.”

“Jesus, Brian. I’m sure he didn’t mean to leave the door open.”

“Mikey. My clothes. Do you even know the average cost of an Armani suit?”

Mikey looked down at his kakis. “Can’t say I do,” he said.

“Two thousand dollars. How about a Versace silk tie, of which I once had more than twenty?”

“Brian . . .”

“One hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Okay, I get the point . . .”

“Alright, here’s an easy one: Gucchi shoes?”

“I don’t know. A million?”

“Fuck you, Mikey.”

“So, what’re you gonna do?”

“Besides throw him out on his ass? Flog him with an electrical cord. Or maybe just push him down the stairs. If I do that, it’ll look like an accident.”

“Brian . . .”

Suddenly, there was the sound of an elevator. 

Brian took a deep _deep_ breath. This was going to be ugly.

 

**Number Twenty-Five: The Aftermath of The Birthday Party (or Who Needs Love When You Can Get an Anonymous Blowjob in an Alley) – S1-E12**

Brian had gone through a lot of shit in his life – pretty much everything from A to Z – but since he was fourteen, one thing had never changed: Michael’s unwavering devotion. Now he’d done what everyone had wanted him to do for years; he’d finally pushed Mikey away so hard and so far that there was no going back. Even Mikey, with his bottomless capacity to put up with Brian’s shit, had had the innate dignity to walk away.

Mikey hated him now. All his friends hated him. Only Justin and Deb had seen through his cruel ruse.

_Christ, I was pissed at you last night. Everybody was, is. But right in the middle of my cussing you out, I finally figured it out. You can’t do anything quietly, can you? Everything's got to be a spectacle, a drama. You couldn’t have pushed him softly. You had to shove him off a fucking cliff._

_Yeah, I had to. Otherwise, he would have followed me around forever._

_Yeah, I guess he would’ve._

_It was the only way._

_This David, he’s good for him._

_Yeah, that won’t last._

_Maybe not, but he should at least give it a try._

_So, how’s he doing?_

_Trying to figure out why his best friend would betray him. But he doesn’t realize that it’s the best thing that could ever happen. That you did him a favor. That maybe now he can finally have a chance to have a life._

Could he really argue with her? Brian knew he was a leech sucking dry Michael’s capacity to love anyone else. He’d known it for years. But he needed Mikey like he needed oxygen. Until Deb had pleaded with him to let Michael go, Brian hadn’t had the impetus – or the strength. She was like a mother to him. She was the last person in the world he could say no to. He’d had to do it.

It was hands-down the most selfless thing he’d ever done. Now he should seal the deal by walking away from everyone. Michael, Emmett, Ted – even Deb. Break every link; sever every tie. But he’d exhausted himself and used up his limited capacity to be alone . . .

. . . which was why a nod from a hot guy in the cold, damp alley next to Woody’s felt like love – or at least love as Brian imagined it.

**Number Twenty-Five: The Yellow Tickbird and the Rhinoceros – S1-E12**

“Not interested.” 

Brian stared morosely at the sculpture he was building out of an orange slice, maraschino cherries and plastic cocktail sticks; all he was missing was an olive. He’d never been more bored in his life – or miserable. Ted was so dull that it defied description and so gullible Brian could’ve sold him the Brooklyn Bridge. And the drag queen strolling up and down the bar in candied-apple stilettoes was wearing underwear under her skirt. Tighty whiteys nonetheless. The whole Goddamn evening was surreal – but in a really boring way.

And then to top it off, Ted hooked up with someone. Someone who was hot enough that Brian would’ve taken him home if he’d been in the mood. 

“Hey, how’s it goin’?”

Brian glanced up at the fifth guy who’d propositioned him so far that evening and then went back to abusing the orange slice.

“Not interested.”

“However, _I_ am available for safe sex and estate planning.”

Brian looked up – now _this_ would be entertaining. The guy’d come over to hit on _him_. There was no way in hell he was going to settle for Ted. It was going to be a delightfully messy train wreck.

The guy looked at Brian with a “well, fuck you then” expression and turned his attention to Ted. “Actually,” he drawled, “I do have some investment questions.”

Ted looked just as shocked as Brian felt. The guy smirked at Brian.

After picking his jaw up off the bar, Ted sealed the deal with a cheesy line about diversifying portfolios or some such crap.

Brian rolled his eyes and turned away. Somehow, amazingly, the night had gotten even more surreal. Ted had just scored with a Brian-quality trick. Un-fucking-believable. 

 

“I’m not interested.”

He was the seventh guy Brian had turned down, and it wasn’t even six yet, but amazingly, the thought of fucking wasn’t as tempting as playing pool by himself. Badly. Without having Mikey . . . _Michael_ . . . around to make him look good, he had to admit that he sucked at pool, and, at least for the moment, at life. Why else would Theodore Schmidt be patting him on the back and remarking what a good time he’d had last night. Fucker.

“I was bored out of my fucking mind,” Brian said, lining up to take yet another failed shot.

“Well,” said Ted cheerfully, “that’s the sign of true friendship – that it can accommodate vastly divergence points of view.”

Brian looked up, but not at Ted. The hottest guy in Woody’s was cruising him hard.

“Not interested,” he said.

Ted stared at him open-mouthed. “You know, just out of curiosity: how many guys hit on you a night?”

“Give or take a hundred and twelve? I don’t know.” God, given how gullible Ted was, he was probably going to believe it. Pathetic.

“Amazing,” Ted said, looking like he was balancing account books in his head. “And I only need one.”

“I’m not interested,” Brian said for the umpteenth time in twenty-four hours.

Ted got a look in his eyes and actually dove into the possibility left in the wake of Brian’s rejection. It might’ve been impressive, if it wasn’t so pathetic. Ted better be careful; Brian was going to start calling him Theodore “Scraps” Schmidt – as in bread crusts, cucumber peels, Eldorados and castoff tricks.

 

**Number Twenty-Six: The Hairy, Leather-Clad Bear – S1-E12**

“Meet my latest trick.”

As always, Melanie was not amused. Why couldn’t it have been Linds who’d opened the door? At least she’d giggle at the teddy bear Brian had bought for Gus and not make some low-blow quip about Brian preferring the young, hairless, not-admitted without a parent or guardian type.

The wesbians looked astonished that he wanted to play Scrabble. What? He and Mikey . . . correction _Michael_ . . . used to play all the time. True, they were always stoned, the words were X-rated, and Mikey . . . damn it, _Michael_ . . . always lost, but it was fun. They even ate bp &j sandwiches and washed them down with grape Kool-Aid – just like they used to when they were fifteen.

But that was all ancient history. Michael had the Doc now, and Brian had . . .

nobody.

He’d lost his two best friends: Lindsay had left him for a cunt (literally and figuratively), and Michael had left him for a tool.

He was alone now, and he didn’t do “alone” well. He never had. When he was alone, memories peeked out at him through the thicket of electric briars that was his brain. Memories and their accompanying emotions that he thought he’d driven stakes through a long time ago. But without Michael, the coffins were open and empty, and their former inhabitants roamed free. Cold vaporous beings hovering in the corners of his eyes. Laughing at him.

When he was alone, too many things started to make sense. His past and his present aligned themselves, bungled relationships mirrored each other, missteps repeated over and over like a skipping record, and mistakes became the heads of a hydra – chop off one and two take its place. His life was nothing but a complex pattern of disappointment and failure.

And then there was “need.” He hated the word, but when he was alone, he was forced to acknowledge that need, above all other things, had shaped his life. It’d been – and still was – the sculptor of his goals, his dreams . . . his fears. Michael may not have had the words to describe Brian’s heart, but he’d known it anyway, cared for it, protected it, loved it. Just having Michael’s number on speed dial was sometimes the one thing that got Brian through the day. Just knowing Michael had a key to the loft struck offing himself from the list of self-destructive things he was always on the verge of doing. He would _never_ make Michael walk in and find . . .

 _Take care of yourself, kiddo_.

He’d cried after Deb left with Justin in tow and her arms full of Michael’s birthday gifts. 

_Take care of yourself_.

How, after all these years, could she not know that he _can’t_ take care of himself – that only Michael could take care of him? Could she really not know? 

Or was it just that she didn’t care? After all, Michael was her son. Brian was just the shadow that used to haunt their dinner table and show up at odd hours of the night needing ice for a split lip and a place to sleep . . .

“Brian.” 

Lindsay sat down on the couch beside him, startling him. Melanie had gone to the store, and the two of them were alone. She placed her palm on the back of his neck and combed her fingers into his hair. He closed his eyes and dropped his head. It had all of a sudden become heavier than he could bear.

“Call him,” she said softly, her voice so low, it was almost a whisper. “I’m worried for you. Patch things up with Michael . . . or, if not that, then find someone new to take his place. And when you do, this time never _ever_ let him go.”


	6. Chapter 6

******Number Twenty-Seven: The Dropped Suit – S1-E14******

*gasp writhe grunt pant moan thrash whimper groan beg wriggle gasp*

“So, Mr. Almost-Eighteen-Year-Old, how does it feel to be almost legal?”

*gasp* “Frustrating as hell. Let me come already!”

“Patience, young grasshopper, patience. It’s called ‘cock & ball _torture_ ’ for a reason.”

*writhe* “Brian, please. My balls are gonna explode!”

“I doubt it – scrotums are tough little bastards. The Aztecs used bull scrotums to carry water. I could leave you like this for _hours and hours_.”

*sobbing sound* “But you wouldn’t . . .”

“Hell yeah, I would. Unless you used the safe word. By the way, never let anyone tie you up without a safe word.”

*breathless giggle* “Yes, Professor Kinney.”

“So . . . now that I’ve got you in a rather . . . vulnerable position, I have a couple questions.”

*moan* “What if I don’t want to answer them?”

“I can keep you right on the edge of orgasm _all night_. Just sayin’”

*pant* “Oh, God. Fuck!”

“Later. First I’m gonna blow you until you’ll sell your little sister into slavery if I’ll let you come, and then I’m gonna fuck you till you can’t even remember your own name.”

*thrash* “Jesus, Brian, if you blow me while I’m tied up like this, I’m going to burst a nut. I’m not kidding!”

“Time for the safe word?”

*groan* “Fuck you.”

“God, you’re fucking hot like this. Okay, first question: Where were you two nights ago?”

*sob* “Oh my fucking God! Are you serious? . . . Okay, okay, stop! Let me think . . . I was at Woody’s with Deb and Vic.”

“Except you didn’t go back home with them.”

*moan* “Brian . . . please!”

“You want me to untie you so you can come down my throat? I’ll take you _that_ deep, Sunshine. You know I have no gag reflex.”

*whimper groan writhe*

“Where’d you go after Woody’s? God, you’re one of the leakiest guys I’ve ever been with.”

*gasp* “I hope that’s a compliment . . .”

“Absolutely. Pre-come makes me hot. So where was I?”

*gasp pant moan*

“Oh right, I remember. Where’d you go after you left the bar?”

*writhe* “Brian, I swear to God I’ll do _anything_. Please just let me come!”

“You already do everything I ask; no leverage there. Where’d you go?”

*whimper* “I went . . . oh God, I went home with . . . _fuck_ . . . some guy . . .”

“Some guy?”

*gasp* “Yeah, just some guy . . . _Brian!_ . . .”

“I see. Did he suck you like this? Did he swallow your load like I’m going to after you _answer my fucking questions_?”

*thrash* “Yes . . . okay? Yes, I let him suck me off. . . oh _oh!_ . . . Are you jealous or something? Because if so, it’s not fair . . .”

“I’m not jealous, Sunshine. I don’t do jealousy; you know that. I’m just trying to figure out why the harassment suit got dropped . . . I have my suspicions. The ‘guy’s’ name wouldn’t happen to be Kip Thomas, would it?”

*whimper* “I don’t know what you’re . . . Oh, God! . . . what you’re talking about . . . Fuck, _fuck!_ Alright, _alright_ . . . maybe I played the jailbait card. Are you mad?”

“You’re damn right I’m mad. You have an amazing ability – let alone willingness – to make enemies. You were at his place, blackmailing him with the threat of prison? God knows what he might’ve done, you stupid little twat!”

*writhe* “But it worked, didn’t it? He dropped the suit! . . . *gasp* . . . you know I’d do anything for you, Brian . . . Oh!”

“Altruism and self-preservation rarely go hand-in-hand . . .”

*pant* “Okay, okay, I get it; I shouldn’t have done it. . . *grunt* . . . I’m sorry. Now will you _please_ let me come? I’m a minute away from using the safe word!”

“What have I told you? Sorry’s bullshit. Never say you’re sorry – especially when you don’t mean it.”

*sob* “Can’t you . . . can’t you play mind games _later_?”

“What’re you going to do? Threaten me with prison? If so, you have exactly thirty seconds to play the jailbait card one last time.”

*writhe* “Fuck!”

“. . . eight . . . nine . . . ten . . .”

*whimper*

“. . . fifteen . . . sixteen . . . seventeen . . .”

*inarticulate sound of desperation*

“. . . twenty-four . . . twenty-five . . . twenty-six. Tick tock. It’s midnight. Here it comes, Sunshine – your birthday present and my ‘thank you’ for saving my Teflon ass . . .”

*Brian’s name followed by a drawn-out cry of sweet, heavenly release*

“God, that was a _lot_ of come. It’s as though your cock was bound for _hours_.”

“Fucker.”

“Thanks for reminding me. Roll over.”

*crinkle of condom wrapper followed shortly by a long, guttural groan of genuine, heartfelt gratitude*

 

**Number Twenty-Eight: The Leather Ball – S1-E15**

He’d tried it once. Hell, he’d try anything at least once as long as it didn’t involve shit (hello, basic hygiene, people). But he wouldn’t do it again – not even for the hottest guy on the planet. Sex should be fun . . . dirty, nasty, filthy fun. Not the kind of head games that can fuck a person up for life.

It happened over a long weekend back in college. His junior year – the year he lost his shit and ended up in Penn’s “Mental Care” wing. The two experiences – extreme sadomasochistic bondage and going insane – took place months apart, but in Brian’s memory, they were inextricably linked. 

His “Daddy” was a professor. Of entomology of all things. He invited Brian to spend Presidents’ Day weekend in his “dungeon,” and Brian had thought ‘heck, why not?’ At least if he was tied up, he couldn’t go on another coke binge with his fucked-up, closeted, trust-fund-baby roommate.

In the end, it wasn’t the branding and the whipping and the meat hooks that made him use his safe word. It wasn’t even being pissed on. It was the sleep deprivation.

He would’ve done _anything_ for an uninterrupted thirty minutes of sleep. And he did do everything – things that his mind later refused to recall in detail. That’d been the one blessing: Go long enough without sleep and everything melts into one long, hazy dream. He might’ve survived the whole experience intact except for the videotape.

Tied-up, limp and drooling, there was no way to block out the sound of his own voice begging and pleading with his “Daddy” to do things to him that wouldn’t only have gotten the dude thrown out of any respectable BDSM club, they’d probably have gotten him thrown in jail. Consent went out the window along with concepts such as “pride” and “dignity.” Knowing that he’d been taped saying and doing the things he’d said and done . . . knowing that a part of him would always remain in that twisted bastard’s basement . . . that was what broke him. And not in a good way, not in the way he knew sane, healthy bondage was supposed to.

He’d barely recognized his own voice, blubbering and high-pitched, saying that fucking word over and over and over again.

 _Daddy_.

 

The funny thing was he’d never actually called Jack “daddy.” Reportedly, his first words weren’t “mama” and “dada,” they were “give me” – a fact that never ceased to amuse him. At least he’d been consistent from Day One. For a while Jack was “dad,” and then he became “Jack” and finally “old prick” or “fucking bastard.” Never “daddy.” Just as Jack had never called him “Brian,” Brian had never called Jack “daddy.” There was no reason why Jack and “daddy” should have any connection in his head, except that that’s what the other kids were always calling _their_ fathers:

_Daddy, look at me! Look at me, Daddy!_

_Daddy, pick me up!_

_Daddy, put me down!_

_Daddy, c’mere!_

_Daddy, watch this!_

Daddy, daddy, daddy. Endless fucking “daddy”s. Even Claire called Jack “daddy,” for fuck sake. But not Brian. He wasn’t convinced that, if he had, Jack wouldn’t have mocked him for it.

 

The guy in the backroom grabbed the collar of Brian’s jacket and jerked him back against his chest. Brian had been punched since moving out of his parents’ house (it’s one of the costs of being an asshole), but he hadn’t been shoved and yanked around since he was a boy with his shirt caught in his father’s fist.

“Hey, little boy,” the man growled. “Wanna come back to my place?”

Brian tried to pull away, but the guy tugged his collar even harder. Brian struggled, but the guy was bigger than him.

“No. Fuck you,” he snapped.

He’d thought he’d made his position crystal clear, but the guy didn’t back off; instead he leaned forward until his lips brushed Brian’s ear.

“You’d like that, huh? I can tell you need a Daddy.”

Suddenly a ticking time bomb that’d been primed and buried ages ago exploded. An abandoned landmine from a long and bloody civil war.

“I said fuck you!” Brian shouted. He shrugged off the guy’s hand with that desperate kind of strength that often accompanies fear . . . and grief. “You’re not my Daddy. I don't need a fucking . . . Daddy.”

 _I never have_.

The fresh air was a blessing. Brian closed his eyes for a moment; his hand braced against the cold brick wall. He was shaking. He’d never had to run away from a backroom encounter before. 

Thanks a lot, Jack. You fucking prick.

 

**Number Twenty-Nine: The Cute Bank Teller – S1-E16**

Mikey punched him in the arm as soon as they exited the bank’s revolving door.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?” 

“For making goo-goo eyes at the teller while he was trying to assist me.”

“So what? He was cute, and I like flirting.”

Mikey rolled his eyes. “You are shameless, you know that.”

Brian draped an arm over Mikey’s shoulders. It was so good having his best friend back in his gravitational thrall once again.

“What do you wanna bet he gives fantastic head? A man with lips and eyes like that was _born_ to suck cock.”

Mikey shrugged off Brian’s arm and gave him a look of devoted exasperation.

“What if he doesn’t call?” Brian asked with a frown of feigned concern. “What if he didn’t think I was hot?”

“Oh, shut up,” Mikey grumbled. “Like that’ll happen. You’ve _never_ been turned down in your life.”

“There’s always a first time,” Brian said insouciantly, not believing his own words for even a second.

 

 **Number Thirty: The Cute Waiter – S1-E17**

For a moment it looked like the latex pants were going to win out over his hard-on, a predicament he should’ve considered before buying the tightest pair he could zip all the way. It’d taken more than five minutes to get them on. Emmett had even suggested lube. Obviously underwear had been out of the question. Even a thong.

“God,” Justin said. “Those are so tight everyone’ll know you’re circumcised.” He placed his hand on Brian’s thigh and slowly slid it higher. Brian groused about needing to pay attention to the road, but he spread his legs anyway.

“Justin,” Deb said from the backseat. “Please.”

Brian looked at her through the rearview mirror. “Hey,” he said. “That’s my line.” He watched her roll her eyes and grinned at her. “Besides, I have a lot of practice driving while having my cock serviced.”

“What if there’s someone there you want to fuck?” Justin asked teasingly, his words accompanied by a squeeze. “How’ll you get those things off and on again without the help of a small army and a tube of KY?”

“Don’t need to undress,” Brian replied. “As long as I can get my cock out, I’ll be fine.”

His passengers laughed. Brian grinned at Vic and Deb in the backseat. He hadn’t done any drugs or started drinking, but it didn’t matter; he felt giddy anyway. His teachers had labeled him a “troublemaker” since first grade. They’d known what they were talking about. Along with fucking and winning big accounts, he loved nothing more than sabotaging pretentious social gatherings. It was no surprise that he was banned from the Gay and Lesbian Center’s events for life – a fact he considered a badge of honor.

 

“So,” he whispered in Justin’s ear. “Who among this sorry crowd deserves to suck my dick?”

Justin scanned the Doc and “Mr. Novotny’s” party with his brow furrowed and his head cocked to the side as though they were at a museum and he was considering the merits of a work of art.

“Hhhmmm,” he said, his breath smelling of fruit and coconut rum (obviously it’d been Emmett who’d spiked the punch). “That’s a tough question.”

Brian sighed wistfully. “If only the Senator was a guy. I’d give her another donation – and I’m not talking about the kind that requires a check and pen.”

“You’re so generous,” Justin whispered, nipping Brian’s earlobe. “Oh, hey! There’s someone.” He pointed at a sweet-faced waiter who practically begged to be defiled by a guy dressed like a seventies porn star in latex pants and a half-unbuttoned silk shirt.

“Not bad,” Brian said with an appreciative nod.

Justin rolled his eyes. “It’s not as though there’re a lot of options.”

“Wish me luck.” Brian kissed his cheek.

“Like you need it.”

“I didn’t mean seducing him; I meant getting these damn pants back on.”

Justin laughed and danced away from another kiss. “Let me know if I can help,” he said over his shoulder. Brian watched him disappear into the sea of sports jackets and boring ties. Even those ghastly cargo pants he was wearing couldn’t obscure the national treasure that was Justin’s ass. 

Suddenly the beautiful waiter felt like a second choice.

 

**Numbers Thirty-One & Thirty-Two: The Twins – S1-E19**

“Your father died. Come to the house tomorrow. I need your help arranging the funeral.” 

His mother’s voice was as unemotional as always. Strangely, Brian was glad. Any deviation from her normal demeanor would’ve freaked him out.

“When?”

“A couple of hours ago. Brian, I could really use your assistance. Your sister is falling apart.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

Brian hung up the phone and guided the lifted head with its concerned expression back to his lap. He’d only fucked a pair of twins once before and there was no way in hell Jack’s demise was going to ruin his evening.

“Who died?” one of them asked after Brian had fucked each of them while the other ate his ass – quite satisfactorily. There was nothing like a good thorough rimming to help alleviate grief. Not that Brian felt grief. He just felt vaguely appalled that he’d had no trouble maintaining a rock-hard boner in the face of his father’s death.

“My dad,” Brian said, lighting his post-orgasm cigarette.

The twins looked at him with shocked expressions.

“Oh my God,” said the one on his left.

“I’m so sorry,” said the one on his right.

Brian shrugged. “Happens to everyone eventually,” he said. The brothers were going to have quite the conversation after Brian kicked them out. “Do either of you know a cheap funeral home?”

They both lifted their heads and stared at him.

 

**Number Thirty-Three: Grief Counseling – S1-E19**

Claire was a fucking wreck, red-faced, sobbing, snots & tears. The whole shebang. Everyone else either looked obligatorily solemn or cold. Brian had never hated his sister more. He longed to push her in the open grave.

Why was she crying? Jack hadn’t liked her, let alone loved her. As far as Brian knew, there were no tender father-daughter memories strumming her heartstrings. She was just another narcissistic Kinney, desperate for attention and anything that approximates affection.

He’d tried to cry – in private, of course – but his tear ducts just wouldn’t cooperate. The truth was he hadn’t loved his dad, but he hadn’t exactly hated him either. Mostly, he just felt anger – even fury. There’d been no last minute expression of love, only an awkward recognition of a genetic connection. Jack was never going to apologize. Brian hoped he’d died alone, but he suspected Claire’d been there. Bitch. Why couldn’t she have some fucking dignity and let go of the fantasy that they’d had a happy childhood? It was pathetic.

He’d been unable to come last night despite the trick’s skillful cock-sucking. He’d get oh so close, but he couldn’t fall over the edge. Finally, he’d given up. The guy’d looked so disappointed that Brian took pity on him and assured him they’d try again some other night. He’d seen the guy several times, and he’d obviously wanted to have a chance to blow him. Brian had heard there was a competition as to who could get Brian Kinney to come the quickest, and last night’s trick had clearly been aiming for the gold only to have Brian’s cock slowly soften in his eager mouth. Poor bastard.

 _Got a funeral tomorrow_ , he’d said by way of explanation and apology. _Next time, and I promise I won’t fuck my . . . my boyfriend before I get here. You’ll get the whole load_.

The guy’d smiled at him and would’ve kissed him on the mouth except that Brian turned his head aside. Until Jack was in the ground, there were only two people he’d let really kiss him.

 

He’d asked Justin not to come to the funeral. He’d only wanted the core gang. They’d understand why Brian wouldn’t cry. Justin wouldn’t. Despite telling Justin how he’d got his deviated septum, Justin still couldn’t get his head around the fact that Brian had no love for his dad, which was a pity since _his_ dad was clearly going to cause Justin nothing but pain for the rest of his life.

 _I want to be there_ , Justin said that morning after they’d fucked. _I want to be there for you_.

Brian had gotten up and gone to the bathroom without a reply. He hadn’t even looked at Justin before he left to go back to Deb’s, instead burying himself in the newspaper. Jack’s obituary was in it – the obituary Brian had written. Thankfully, the paper’s editors hadn’t rewritten it.

 _Jack Archibald Kinney, 62, died riddled with cancer on Thursday. Jack was born at North Central Bronx Hospital, the son of Agnes and John-Paul Kinney, both from County Kerry. He grew up in New York City and later moved to New Orleans, where he gambled himself into substantial debt. On a visit to his parents, he knocked up his future wife, Joan Marie Canning, and moved to Scranton where he worked for the city’s municipal public works department. The couple later had a second unwanted child and moved to Pittsburgh where Jack got a job with Pittsburgh Power. Jack’s sole interests in life were union politics, screwing around, drinking, bowling, gambling and himself. He leaves behind his wife; a daughter, Claire Parks; a son, Brian Kinney; three grandsons, ten thousand dollars in debt and a lien on the house. A graveside funeral will be held on Saturday at Alleghany Cemetery at 10 a.m. In lieu of flowers, people should keep their money and spend it on something worthwhile_.

Brian smiled as he rolled the joint he planned to smoke with Mikey during the ceremony. Oddly enough, he was pretty sure Jack would’ve appreciated Brian’s summation of his life. As he’d been fond of saying – the two of them were a lot alike. He was right, but Brian had never been sure if it was a compliment or an insult. Probably both. Prick.

To be continued . . .

**Author's Note:**

> The gorgeous banner is courtesy of K.C. (Predec2).


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